Addison stared at her phone through the darkness, a message blazing like an accusation.

The nickname unlocked a flood of memories—Sunday mornings crashed back with coffee and newspapers scattered across rumpled sheets.

“You’re my dove,” his voice echoed from memory. “Soft and gentle, yet stronger than anyone knows. My beautiful dove who could fly anywhere but chooses to stay with me.”

“Where would I go? You’re my home,” she’d laughed back then, pulling him closer.

The memory detonated through her chest. It was a beautiful and peaceful time, full of joy and bone deep love. Before it not.

Before he vanished. Before he shattered her.

“What the hell does this mean?” she muttered, looking at the phone.

The message stared back at her, cryptic and impossible. She read it again, then again, her pulse hammering against her throat. Each word felt like a puzzle piece that didn’t belong to any picture she recognized.

Her hands trembled as she set the phone aside, but sleep refused to come.

She spent the sleepless night wrestling with questions that had no answers, until morning brought nausea that slammed her against the counter.

“Come on, baby,” she gasped, splashing water on her face. “Work with me here.”

The clinic’s waiting room buzzed with nervous energy. Addison gripped her purse strap like a weapon as her thoughts continued to terrorize her.

How should she tell Jaxon about her pregnancy? What is the perfect timing for such news? Should she tell him about it at all?

What if something’s wrong? What if the stress might have damaged the baby?

“Addison Blackhawk?”

The nurse’s voice cut through her panic and she followed down a corridor dominated by medical equipment.

“Ms. Blackhawk? I’m Dr. Martinez.” The woman smiled warmly. “First ultrasound?”

“Yes. I’m terrified something might be wrong.”

“That’s completely normal. Every first-time mother worries. Let’s take a look and put your mind at ease, shall we?”

“Please. I need to know my baby’s okay.”

Dr. Martinez moved with practiced efficiency, squeezing gel across Addison’s stomach.

“What should I expect to see?”

“At eight weeks, we should see a clear fetal outline and hopefully detect a heartbeat.”

“And if we don’t?”

“Let’s focus on what we’re likely to find—a healthy, developing baby.”

The doctor guided the wand across her skin with gentle precision.

“There we are,” Dr. Martinez said softly. “Can you see that little shape on the screen? That’s your baby.”

Addison stared at the monitor, breath catching. “It’s so small…”

“About the size of a raspberry, perfectly normal for eight weeks. Let me take some measurements.” The machine clicked rhythmically. “Everything looks exactly as it should.”

“Really? Nothing’s wrong?”

“Nothing at all. Now, let’s listen to something magical.”

Dr. Martinez adjusted controls, and suddenly the room exploded with rapid, strong, relentless sound.

“That’s your baby’s heartbeat,” she announced with genuine joy. “One hundred sixty beats per minute. Absolutely perfect.”

“Oh my God,” Addison whispered, tears streaming. “That’s really my baby?”

“That’s your baby. Strong, healthy, thriving.”

“It sounds so powerful for something so tiny.”

“Babies are fighters from the very beginning. This little one is already showing tremendous strength.”

Love detonated through Addison’s chest like a bomb, spreading protective fury through every nerve.

“My baby,” she whispered, pressing fingers to her stomach. “My perfect little fighter.”

“Any questions about the pregnancy, Addison?”

“Is it normal to feel this connected already? This protective?”

“Absolutely. The heartbeat creates an immediate bond for most women. You’re already a mother.”

Dr. Martinez handed over ultrasound pictures, and Addison clutched them like sacred treasures.

“We were supposed to close the biggest deal of this year. Fifty million dollars in development funding. Everything was perfect—signatures ready, contracts prepared, victory guaranteed.”

“That sounds incredible. What went wrong?”

“Business partner’s pregnant wife decided she didn’t like the environmental impact study.” Jaxon’s voice turned venomous. “Just like that, she tells him the project makes her uncomfortable. So what does he do? Cancels the entire fucking deal!”

Addison’s blood turned to ice. “Maybe she had valid concerns—”

“Valid?” Jaxon’s laugh was pure poison. “It’s hormonal hysteria! These pregnant women think their emotions trump business logic. Fifty million dollars obliterated because of irrational female sentiment!”

“Jaxon—”

“It’s completely unreasonable. Hormones make them emotional, illogical, incapable of rational decision-making. They prioritize feelings over facts, sentiment over success!”

Each word struck like physical violence. She stared at her ultrasound picture—her miracle suddenly feeling fragile as glass.

“So you’re coming home early?”

“Tomorrow. Flight lands at two, I’ll be at the bank by 2:30. We need immediate damage control. I missed you desperately.”

“Tomorrow,” she repeated numbly.

“Yes. Can’t wait to see you, darling. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The call died and Addison sat frozen, his early return destroying every plan she’d imagined.

“Well, that was fucking delightful,” Nora said, returning back. Her voice dripping sarcasm. “Your boyfriend just called pregnant women irrational hysteria cases, didn’t he?”

“While I’m pregnant.”

“While you’re pregnant.” Nora leaned forward with fire in her eyes. “What an absolute prince. Really knows how to charm a lady.”

“He doesn’t know yet.”

“Oh, honey.” Nora’s sarcasm melted into fierce sympathy. “That conversation is going to be a shit show of epic proportions.”

“Yeah. It really is.”

The ultrasound pictures stared back—tiny evidence of the “hormonal whim” that would shatter his perfect world.

Tonight. She had to decide everything tonight.