The morning of the clinic appointment felt heavier than the overcast sky outside the penthouse windows. I cradled my cup of cardamom espresso, the familiar warmth doing little to ease the knot in my stomach. Dario had prepared it perfectly, as always, but today the small ritual carried an edge of uncertainty.
He came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. “We’ll get through this,” he murmured, though his voice lacked its usual confidence. “Together.”
The private clinic was efficient and discreet. Isabella arrived separately, composed and visibly pregnant. She barely glanced at me, focusing her attention on Dario. Samples were taken quickly. The waiting afterward was torturous. Back at the penthouse, I tried to focus on work at the dining table while Dario paced and made calls t
