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"Pregnant," I said against her neck, the word feeling like a prayer. "Lili, you're pregnant."
"Edward," she laughed, "put me down before we both end up on the floor."
But I couldn't seem to let go of her.
The joy coursing through my veins was unlike anything I'd ever experienced—not the cold satisfaction of winning a case orthe measured pleasure of a successful business deal. This was pure, elemental happiness.
"We need to have it confirmed," I said, finally setting her down but keeping my hands on her waist. "Properly confirmed, with the best doctors available."
"I was hoping you'd say that," she admitted. "The tests seem pretty definitive, but..."
"But we want to be absolutely certain," I finished, already reaching for my phone. "Dr. Harrison at the Royal Berkshire Private Hospital. She's been the royal family's obstetrician for decades."
I paused, a memory surfacing with startling clarity. "Actually, I was there just eighteen months ago when Prince Ethan was born. Charles called me at two in the morning, completely beside himself because the media had somehow gotten wind of the early labor. I spent six hours managing legal injunctions to keep the press at bay while poor Catherine was in delivery."
Lili's eyes widened. "You were there for a royal birth?"
"In the family waiting room, fielding calls from newspaper editors who thought they were clever," I said with a slight smile. "Charles was pacing like a caged tiger, and his Mother was critiquing the hospital's décor choices. When Dr. Harrison finally emerged to announce the birth, Charles actually wept. I'd never seen him show that kind of raw emotion."
I looked down at Lili, my heart swelling with the realization that soon I would understand exactly how Charles had felt in that moment.
"Dr. Harrison will take excellent care of you," I continued, dialing the familiar number. "She's discreet, brilliant, and has successfully delivered two generations of royalty. If anyone can give us the confirmation we need, it's her."
Within the hour, we were seated in the same examination room where I'd paced eighteen months ago, waiting for news of Prince Ethan.
The irony wasn't lost on me—then I'd been the anxious friend and legal counsel, now I was the expectant Father.
Dr. Harrison, a distinguished woman in her fifties greeted us with the same calm professionalism I remembered from that nerve-wracking night.
"Mr. Grosvenor," she said warmly, "how lovely to see you under much happier circumstances. And this must be the famous Miss Anderton I've been reading about."
"The notorious Miss Anderton," Lili corrected with a grin, and I felt another surge of pride at her courage.
"Well then," Dr. Harrison said, adjusting the ultrasound equipment, "shall we see what all the fuss is about?"
I moved my chair closer to the examination table so I could hold Lili's hand, both of us staring at the monitor with nervous anticipation.
The screen flickered to life, showing shadows and shapes that meant nothing to my untrained eye.
"There," Dr. Harrison said, pointing to a small, dark area on the screen. "There's your baby."
Lili squeezed my hand so tightly I was certain she'd leave marks. "Really? That little blob is our baby?"
"Indeed it is," Dr. Harrison confirmed, then paused, moving the ultrasound wand slightly. Her expression shifted to one of delighted surprise. "Oh, my. How wonderfully unexpected."
"What?" I asked immediately, my legal instincts detecting something significant in her tone. "Is something wrong?"
"Not wrong at all," she said, her voice taking on a note of barely contained excitement. "Quite the opposite, actually. Look here."
She pointed to another area of the screen, and suddenly I could see it—another small, dark space, another tiny form.
"Twins," Dr. Harrison announced with professional satisfaction. "You're having twins."
The world tilted sideways.
I gripped the edge of my chair, suddenly grateful for its solid weight beneath my hands. Twins. The word seemed to echo in my mind, bouncing off every carefully constructed plan I'd ever made for the future and rendering them all beautifully, terrifyingly obsolete.
"Twins?" I repeated, my voice coming out rough and broken.