His mother went to temples. She knelt on stone steps for an entire day and night, praying for a single Abbott heir.
When the IVF finally took—when the test came back positive—Edward, my stoic, unshakeable Edward, held me and sobbed like a child.
"Celine Fox," he'd choked out. "Thank you. Thank you for giving me hope."
"I swear I'll love you and our baby with everything I have. With my life."
He'd meant it. Every word.
When a stranger accidentally bumped my stomach at the grocery store, Edward rushed me to the ER for a full-body exam. When his mother's soup was a degree too hot, he blew on each spoonful himself before lifting it to my lips. The nursery was already overflowing—an entire room packed with clothes and supplies, every item hand-selected, only the best.
This was a man who treated legacy like oxygen.
This was a father who already loved his unborn child like breath itself.
He wouldn't cheat on me. He wouldn't throw away the miracle we'd fought so hard for—not for some mistress, not for anyone.
Would he?
I inhaled slowly and met his eyes.
"Are you sure there isn't some mistake?" My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Every checkup before this was perfect."