Page 15 of Bound in Matrimony (Belonging to Him Trilogy #3)

Chapter Fifteen

Knox

Sixteen hours. Sixteen goddamn hours, and still my daughter hasn't arrived.

The hospital suite—the entire floor I commandeered for Seraphina's comfort and privacy—feels like a prison cell.

My hand has gone numb from Seraphina's grip during contractions, but I'd rather lose the limb entirely than let go.

Each time pain washes over her face, I feel it like a physical blow.

I've broken men in boardrooms, crushed competitors without remorse, built an empire through sheer force of will, but I can't do a damn thing to ease my wife's suffering as she labors to bring our child into the world.

The powerlessness is a living thing inside me, clawing at my chest, threatening to shatter the control I'm barely maintaining.

"Mr. Vance?" The nurse approaches cautiously, clearly having learned from earlier interactions that I'm not to be trifled with. "Dr. Winters would like to check your wife's progress."

I nod once, my eyes never leaving Seraphina's face. She's exhausted, her honey-blonde hair dampened with sweat, her usually vibrant eyes dulled by fatigue. Yet she's never looked more beautiful to me. More powerful. More essential.

"Seven centimeters," Dr. Winters announces after her examination. "You're making good progress, Seraphina."

"Good progress?" I can't keep the edge from my voice. "She's been in labor for sixteen hours. How much longer?"

Dr. Winters meets my glare with professional calm. "First babies often take their time, Mr. Vance. Everything is proceeding normally. Your daughter is showing no signs of distress."

"And my wife?" I demand. "What about her distress?"

"Knox." Seraphina's voice is tired but firm. "Dr. Winters is doing everything possible. This isn't like closing a business deal. You can't intimidate our daughter into arriving faster."

I swallow the retort that rises to my lips. She's right, of course. But the sight of her in pain, hour after hour, is testing the limits of my sanity. I've been awake as long as she has, refusing food, refusing to leave her side even for a moment.

Another contraction begins, and I shift to support her, one arm around her shoulders, the other hand still locked with hers. "Breathe," I murmur, demonstrating the pattern we've been practicing for months. "That's it. Just like that."

She squeezes my hand with surprising strength, her breath coming in short gasps as the contraction peaks. I would give every dollar I possess, dismantle my entire company, promise any price, if it would take this pain from her.

"You're doing beautifully," I tell her when it passes, brushing damp hair from her forehead. "Our daughter is lucky to have such a strong mother."

A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "And such an overbearing father. I heard you threatening the anesthesiologist earlier."

"He was taking too long with the epidural." I don't apologize. The man had moved with maddening slowness while Seraphina suffered. "And I didn't threaten him. I merely explained the consequences of inadequate care."

"You told him you'd buy the hospital and fire him if he didn't—" Her words cut off as another contraction begins, stronger than the last.

Dr. Winters returns, checking the monitors that track our daughter's heartbeat and Seraphina's contractions. "The contractions are getting closer together. This is good."

A commotion outside the door draws my attention. Raised voices, the sound of hurried footsteps. I tense, instantly alert to potential threats.

"What's happening?" I demand of the nearest nurse.

"I'm not sure, Mr. Vance. I'll check?—"

Before she can move, the door opens and an unfamiliar doctor enters, consulting with Dr. Winters in hushed tones. My hearing, always acute when it comes to potential problems, catches fragments: "heart rate dropped..." "might need to consider..." "if it happens again..."

Ice floods my veins. "What's wrong with my daughter?"

Both doctors turn to me, and I see the moment Dr. Winters decides not to sugarcoat the situation. "Your daughter's heart rate showed a brief deceleration during that last contraction. It's back to normal now, but we'll be monitoring very closely."

"What does that mean?" The calm in my voice is deceptive, masking the primal fear clawing at my insides.

"It could mean nothing. Brief decelerations happen during labor. But if it continues or worsens, we may need to consider a cesarean section."

Seraphina's hand tightens in mine. "Is she in danger?" Her voice is steadier than I expected, her concern for our child overriding her exhaustion.

"Not at the moment," Dr. Winters assures her. "But we're taking every precaution."

The next thirty minutes are the longest of my life.

I stand guard beside Seraphina, watching the monitors with predatory intensity, tracking our daughter's heartbeat as if by sheer will I can keep it strong and steady.

When it dips again during another contraction, the room erupts into controlled chaos.

"We need to prep for a C-section," Dr. Winters announces. "The baby is showing signs of distress."

"Do it," I command, though no one is waiting for my permission. "Whatever needs to happen, do it now."

Nurses move efficiently around us, preparing Seraphina for surgery. An orderly appears with a wheelchair to transport her to the operating room.

"Sir, you'll need to wait outside while we?—"

"No." The word comes out like a gunshot. "I'm staying with my wife."

"Hospital policy requires?—"

"I don't give a damn about hospital policy.

" I step closer to the man, using the full advantage of my height and the intensity that has made business rivals back down for decades.

"I've purchased enough of this hospital to rewrite policy as I see fit.

My wife doesn't leave my sight. Is that understood? "

Dr. Winters intervenes before the situation escalates further. "Mr. Vance can come to the operating room. He'll need to change into sterile attire, but fathers are permitted during C-sections."

The relief on Seraphina's face is worth any battle I'd have to fight. I lean down, pressing my forehead to hers. "I'm not leaving you. Not for a second."

They dress me in surgical scrubs and lead us to the operating room, a gleaming space filled with equipment and personnel. As they transfer Seraphina to the operating table, a nurse tries to direct me to a stool near her head, away from the surgical field.

"Her hand," I insist. "I need to hold her hand."

The anesthesiologist eyes me warily. "You'll need to stay out of the way of the surgical team."

"I'll be wherever my wife needs me to be." My tone leaves no room for argument.

Throughout the preparations—the draping of sterile cloths, the administration of additional anesthesia, the assembly of instruments—I maintain my position at Seraphina's side, my fingers intertwined with hers.

They've erected a screen so she can't see the surgery, but I could view the procedure if I wanted to.

I don't. My focus remains entirely on her face, on being her anchor in this storm.

"Are you afraid?" she whispers, her eyes finding mine above the surgical mask they've given me.

The question pierces straight through the armor I've maintained, the facade of controlled strength. With anyone else, I would deny it. With her, I can only offer truth.

"Terrified," I admit, the word barely audible. "But not for myself."

Her smile is tired but genuine. "Our daughter is stubborn. Like her father."

"Strong," I correct her, brushing my thumb across her knuckles. "Like her mother."

The surgery begins, and I feel Seraphina's hand tighten in mine as she experiences the strange sensations of the procedure. Not pain—they've numbed her completely—but pressure, movement, the surreal awareness of being operated on while fully conscious.

"Talk to me," she requests. "Distract me."

So I do. I tell her about the nursery waiting at home, though she's seen it a hundred times.

I describe the trust fund I've established for our daughter, the educational opportunities I've already arranged, the security measures implemented to protect her from the moment of her birth.

Normal fathers might talk about sports or music lessons, but I am what I am—a man obsessed with securing what matters.

"She'll have everything," I promise. "Everything I didn't have. Everything you deserve. I'll?—"

"Mr. and Mrs. Vance," Dr. Winters interrupts from behind the screen. "You're about to meet your daughter."

Time slows, crystallizing into a perfect, suspended moment. I hear a flurry of activity, murmured technical exchanges between the surgical team, and then—a cry. Small but fierce, indignant at being removed from her comfortable dwelling, determined to be heard.

My daughter.

The sound breaks something open inside me, something I didn't know was sealed shut. A raw, unfiltered emotion too powerful to name floods through the breach.

"Knox." Seraphina's voice pulls me back, her fingers squeezing mine. "Go see her."

I hesitate, torn between my promise never to leave her side and the desperate need to see our child.

"Go," she insists. "I'm right here."

I stand on legs that feel suddenly unsteady, peering over the screen just as a nurse lifts our daughter—impossibly small, impossibly perfect—into view.

"Would you like to cut the cord, Mr. Vance?" Dr. Winters asks.

My hands, which have never trembled during billion-dollar negotiations, shake visibly as I accept the surgical scissors. With one careful snip, I sever the physical connection between Seraphina and our daughter, even as a new, unbreakable bond forms between all three of us.

They clean and wrap our child with practiced efficiency, then place her in my arms. The weight of her—so light yet so monumentally significant—nearly brings me to my knees.

I stare down at her tiny face, her eyes screwed shut, her miniature fists balled in protest, and feel the last walls around my heart collapse entirely.

I return to Seraphina's side, cradling our daughter where she can see her. "She's perfect," I manage, my voice rough with emotion. "Absolutely perfect."

As I stand there, my hand still firmly gripping Seraphina's, our daughter nestled in the crook of my arm, I understand with perfect clarity that every acquisition, every victory, every empire I've built means nothing compared to these two lives now entrusted to my protection.

And I silently renew the vow I made the day I married Seraphina: Nothing and no one will ever come between me and what's mine. My family. My world. My everything.