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"How are we doing, love?" he asked, his voice gentle despite the controlled panic in his eyes.
"Well, sugar, I'm about to give birth to twins while your Mama provides floor entertainment," I managed between pants. "So I'd say we're having ourselves quite the Tuesday."
What happened next was like something out of a comedy sketch, if comedy sketches involved excruciating pain and the most overwhelming love I'd ever experienced.
Dr. Harrison had somehow managed to get Victoria upright and stationed in a chair far enough away that she couldn't faint on anything important, while Edward held my hand and provided what he probably thought was helpful commentary.
"You're doing magnificently, darling," he said as I squeezed his hand hard enough to probably leave permanent damage. "Absolutely brilliant."
"Edward Grosvenor," I panted, "if you use one more big word to describe what's happening to my body right now, I'm going to—"
"The first baby is crowning," Dr. Harrison announced with professional excitement.
And suddenly, everything else fell away. The pain, the chaos, Victoria's dramatic performance in the corner—none of it mattered because our first child was about to enter the world.
"One more push, Lili," Dr. Harrison encouraged. "Just one more."
I pushed with everything I had, Edward's hand anchoring me to reality, and then—a cry. The most beautiful, indignant little cry I'd ever heard.
"Baby A," Dr. Harrison announced, lifting a tiny, perfect little person for us to see. "It's a girl."
"A girl," Edward whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "We have a daughter."
I was crying before I realized it, reaching out to touch the tiny face that looked impossibly small and absolutely perfect. Our daughter. Our little girl who had Edward's stubborn chin and what looked like it might be my unruly hair.
"She's beautiful," I sobbed, not caring that I probably looked like I'd been hit by a truck. "Edward, look at her. Just look at her."
But there wasn't time for proper introductions because Baby B was apparently impatient to make an entrance.
"And here comes the second one," Dr. Harrison said. "Much more eager than the first."
"That's my boy," Edward said, then immediately looked panicked. "Not that I'm assuming gender, of course. I simply meant—"
"Edward," I laughed despite the pain, "shut up and help me have your son."
Because somehow I knew, even before Dr. Harrison confirmed it minutes later. Our little boy who came into the world with significantly less drama than his sister, but withthe same perfect tiny features and Edward's already-serious expression.
"Baby B, and it's a boy," Dr. Harrison announced, and I swear I heard Victoria sniffle from her corner.
"Twins," Edward said wonderingly, staring at our children like they were the most miraculous things he'd ever seen. Which, frankly, they were. "We have twins."
"Henry and Charlotte," I said, the names we'd chosen months ago suddenly feeling absolutely right. "Henry Edward and Charlotte Rose."
"After my grandFather and your Mother," Edward said softly, his eyes shining. "Perfect."
The first time I held both babies at once, I understood why people wrote poetry about parenthood. There weren't adequate words for the fierce, overwhelming love that crashed over me like a tidal wave. I'd thought I understood love before—the way I loved Edward, the way I loved my Mama.
But this was something primal and fierce, like my heart had suddenly expanded to three times its normal size and was somehow beating outside my chest in two tiny bodies. These tiny people—our tiny people—were already perfect and complete, like they'd been waiting their whole lives to finally meet us.
Edward sat beside me on the hospital bed, his arm around my shoulders as we both stared at our children in amazement. Henry was already showing signs of his Father's serious nature, studying everything with those gray eyes that were definitely Grosvenor. Charlotte was more like me—already making faces and what looked suspiciously like attempts at conversation.
"They're so small," Edward whispered, like speaking too loudly might somehow damage them.
"They're perfect," I corrected, adjusting Charlotte's tiny pink hat. "Look at these little fingers. And these perfect little noses."
"May I?" Victoria's voice was tentative, so unlike her usual commanding presence that we both looked up in surprise.
She was standing a few feet away, looking uncertain and almost vulnerable. The woman who had orchestrated corporate takeovers and social manipulations was asking permission to meet her grandchildren.