Make My Tycoon Ex Regret

Serena Blackwell’s fingers were trembling. Not from fear, but because she had waited three whole years for this result. The lights in the private clinic were blindingly white. The cold metal of the gynecological exam table sent a tight clench through her back. She bit down on her lower lip, swallowed every ounce of discomfort, and never once took her eyes off the ultrasound screen. “Serena, everything looks excellent,” Dr. Hayes finally said, a cautious excitement threading through her voice. “Your ovarian function has recovered beautifully, your endometrial thickness is perfect, and there’s a dominant follicle on the left side. I estimate ovulation within forty-eight hours.” Serena shot upright, completely forgetting the probe was still inside her. “What did you say?” Dr. Hayes quickly pressed her shoulder back down, withdrawing the probe with a smile. “I said, you can start trying to conceive. Your PCOS is under control.” Serena stared at the printed report. The numbers blurred and sharpened, sharpened and blurred before her eyes. She read them once, twice, three times, until every single digit was carved into her mind. Then she lifted the paper to her lips and pressed a soft kiss against it. Three years. Three years of pills, needles, abdominal pain in the dark, countless moments of humiliation and hope on that examination table. In those three years, her husband Dominic Ashford had never once complained, but she knew the entire Ashford family was waiting. Waiting for an heir. She opened her phone and sent Dominic a message: “Please make sure you come home tonight, okay? I’ll be waiting.” She added a smiley face. Outside the window, snow was drifting down over a December London. The Ashford manor sat in the deepest part of Kensington. Behind the wrought-iron gates stood a nineteenth-century red-brick building, as solemn and imposing as a small palace. Serena had been married into it for three years and had never once truly felt it was home. Home was supposed to be warm. But the temperature here was always set by a single person — Eleanor Ashford, Dominic’s mother. Carrying two shopping bags, Serena stepped into the foyer. The whole house smelled of roasting turkey. She had bought Dominic a deep navy cashmere overcoat, and for Eleanor an Italian handmade silk scarf. Together they had cost her a month’s salary, but she didn’t care. It was Christmas Eve, and tucked against her chest she carried the best gift in the world: that test report. “You’re late again.” Eleanor’s voice came from the dining room, devoid of warmth, like winter rain dripping onto a stone slab. The sixty-year-old woman stood beside the long dining table, her back to Serena. She didn’t even turn her head. “Eleanor, happy holidays.” Serena walked over, her voice soft but steady. “This is for you —” “How many times do I have to tell you?” Eleanor finally turned, her gaze skimming the silk scarf, the curve of her mouth unmistakably contemptuous. “Quit that ridiculous job of yours. An Ashford daughter-in-law, serving coffee in a second-rate gallery — what would it look like if word got out?” Serena’s fingers tightened. It wasn’t serving coffee; she was an assistant curator. But correcting Eleanor would only make her despise her more. Three years in, she had learned not to correct a single thing Eleanor said. “I’ll think about it.” She placed the scarf on the table. Eleanor didn’t spare it a single glance. From beside her, she lifted a ceramic cup filled with a dark brown liquid that smelled like mud mixed with herbs. “Drink.” Serena took the cup. She knew this wasn’t tea. Fertility concoctions Eleanor had scrounged from all manner of “health advisers” — she had swallowed dozens of them. Some tasted so foul they made her gag on the spot, but she never refused. She knew the family needed an heir, and she also wanted to give Dominic a beautiful baby. And it also meant Eleanor hadn’t given up on her. Not yet. She tipped her head back and drank. Her stomach churned. She pressed the back of her hand to her lips, waiting for the nausea to pass. “Where’s Dominic?” she asked. “Work.” Eleanor answered with a single word. Then she picked up the silk scarf, holding it between two fingers as though it were a used tissue. “Don’t buy this kind of thing again.” She turned and went upstairs. Serena stood where she was, gripping the empty cup. She looked down, her other hand going to the folded report in her coat pocket. It didn’t matter. Once Dominic came home, everything would be different. At eleven that night, Serena heard the lock turn. She had spent two hours making the bedroom immaculate. Fresh sheets, every visible surface wiped down, every strand of hair on the carpet inspected. Dominic had an obsessive compulsion for cleanliness, a fixation so severe it bordered on pathological; a single strand of hair on the floor could make him frown. So she cleaned herself every day, more meticulously than any housekeeper would. The door opened. Dominic Ashford walked in carrying the cold of a December night and a faint trace of cigarette smoke. He wore a black suit, his frame lean, his shoulders straight. In the dim corridor light his face looked strikingly severe — high cheekbones, deep-set gray eyes, thin lips forever pressed together. He gave two light coughs. “Dominic.” Serena went to him, skilfully helping him out of his coat. Her hand brushed his fingertips; they were icy. “It must be freezing out. Let me draw you a bath —” Before she could finish, her wrist was caught. His hand was a size larger than hers, his knuckles distinct, his grip tightening just to the edge of pain. “I’m hungry,” he said. His voice was low and held a trace of fatigue. There was something in the way he looked at her — not love, more like a kind of … habit. A three-year habit of being cared for, of being waited on. “Alright.” Serena nodded. “Noodles?” “Mm.” She turned up the heating and hurried down to the kitchen. By the time she returned with a steaming bowl of noodle soup, Dominic was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at his phone. He seemed … irritated? The phone buzzed, and buzzed again. His thumb swiped across the screen a few times, then he powered it off altogether and tossed it onto the sofa. Serena stood in the doorway, holding the bowl. “Who was that?” she asked, her voice light. Dominic took the bowl. He didn’t answer right away. He lifted some noodles, took a bite, chewed, and then said, “Nathan. About the new project.” Nathan. His project partner. Serena nodded. She moved behind him, placed her hands on his shoulders and pressed into the stiff muscles, her pressure exactly right, as though she had done it a thousand times. “Busy lately?” “Mm.” Silence. Then he set the bowl down and turned to look at her. In the lamplight his gray eyes softened, just a little. He reached out and gave her cheek a pinch. “Had a shower?” She nodded. “Wait for me.” He rose and walked into the bathroom. While the water ran, Serena took the test report out of the nightstand drawer and read it once again. Forty-eight hours. She pressed a hand to her lower belly. Maybe soon. (Come, little one. You’ll have the best daddy and the best mummy.) The bathroom door opened. Dominic came out in a bathrobe, the sash tied loosely, revealing a bronze-hued chest. His hair was still dripping, his whole presence radiating warmth. She hurriedly pushed the report back into the drawer. She would wait — wait until she was certain she had conceived, and then surprise him. Dominic sat on the bed and brushed the stray strands of hair back from her forehead, tucking them behind her ear. Then he pulled her into his arms. That night, he was unusually gentle.