The following morning arrived cloaked in quiet. A rare morning with no meetings, no reporters lurking near their gates, and no distractions—just the subtle rhythm of rain brushing the windows like a lullaby.
Nina remained in bed longer than usual, curled against Sebastian, her hand resting over her stomach in a protective, almost instinctive gesture. He was awake before her, staring at the ceiling with his arm tucked beneath her shoulders, letting the weight of the last few weeks slowly settle.
Pregnancy.
It still sounded foreign in his head.
Foreign, and yet, it had already rewired something fundamental inside him.
When Nina stirred, he kissed the top of her head. "Morning, Mama."
She groaned softly. "God, don't call me that yet. I still feel like I'm carrying indigestion, not a person."
He chuckled. "You carried a company through scandal. You carried your name through a burning house. Trust me, a baby will be easier."
She smacked his chest lightly. "Don't jinx it. I might birth a child that gives your boardroom stare before it can walk."
His lips twitched. "Our child will be a diplomat at breakfast and a war strategist by lunch."
"A tyrant by dinner," she added, laughing.
It was strange—this peace. They weren't used to it. Both of them had lived so long on high alert that rest felt almost suspicious. But today, there were no alarms to answer.
Sebastian leaned over to the side table and retrieved the worn leather notebook he'd been jotting things into for weeks. He opened it to a page titled "Names."
"You've been writing down name options?" Nina asked with a smile, surprised.
He nodded, offering her the book. "I figured I'd come up with the worst ones first so you'd veto them quickly."
She flipped through it, laughing. "Sebastian, did you write… 'Quartz'? As in the stone?"
He looked mock-offended. "It's solid. Durable. Very grounded."
"Sebastian, we are not naming our child after a countertop."
He took the notebook back and muttered, "It's still better than 'Stormi.'"
They both laughed until her giggle turned into a tiny wince. She placed a hand on her abdomen.
"Hey," he said, instantly alert. "Pain?"
"Just a cramp. It's normal. The books say it's the uterus adjusting."
"You read the books?"
She shot him a look. "You think I'd go into this blind?"
He looked chastised. "I didn't mean—"
"No, I'm kidding." She softened. "Of course I've been reading. But it still doesn't feel real until moments like this."
They grew quiet again. Outside, the rain continued. Somewhere in the kitchen, the smart coffee machine beeped twice.
Then Nina said, "My mother would've loved this."
Sebastian tensed slightly.
"She used to say," Nina continued, her voice softer now, "that I'd become the woman she never had a chance to be. That I'd break what needed breaking and rebuild the rest. She didn't live long enough to see me grow into that. But I hope… I hope she's somewhere smiling."
He turned toward her and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. "She would be proud. You carry her strength in your voice."
"I wonder what kind of grandmother she would've been."
"The kind who teaches your child how to break silence with fire."
She smiled sadly. "Yeah."
A beat passed.
Then she looked up at him and asked the question she'd been holding in for days.
"What about your father?"
Sebastian's jaw shifted. "What about him?"
"Will you tell him?"
"I haven't decided."
"You haven't seen him in what—ten years?"
"Thirteen."
"You think he deserves to know?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached for her hand and held it.
"My father is the reason I became the man I am. But not in the noble way. He built me by breaking me first."
Nina nodded slowly. She understood that kind of inheritance. "Still… do you want to keep that chapter closed? Or do you want to rewrite it?"
He sighed. "If I contact him, it won't be for him. It'll be for this child. To end what shouldn't continue."
"Then maybe that's reason enough."
He gave her a small nod. "I'll think about it."
They didn't press further. Some wounds required silence before healing.
Later in the afternoon, Nina stood by the nursery room—bare and echoing, filled only with the promise of what would be. She hadn't picked a theme yet. Just soft grey walls, white trim, and large windows overlooking the city.
Sebastian stepped behind her, arms wrapping around her waist from behind. "I scheduled an architect. We can customize everything."
"I want it simple," she said. "Not royal. Just peaceful."
He rested his chin on her shoulder. "Then peaceful it will be."
Suddenly, her phone buzzed on the windowsill.
A message from Layla: "Did you see the gossip headline?"
Nina's stomach sank.
She tapped the link.
"Is Nina Blackwell Still in Touch with Her Ex? Secret Messages Revealed!"
Beneath it, grainy screenshots of old emails between her and Jordan, clearly hacked. Most of them were professional—formal replies from months ago. But one line had been circled in red:
"I'm not sure Sebastian will ever be the kind of man who chooses softness over pride."
Sebastian, reading over her shoulder, went still.
"That was… months ago," she said immediately. "Before things changed. Before we changed."
"I know."
"You don't believe—"
"I know who you are, Nina." His voice was calm, but there was a storm behind it. "And I know what the media does."
Still, the words hung in the air.
I'm not sure Sebastian will ever be the kind of man who chooses softness over pride.
It had been true then. Maybe.
But not now.
He touched her face. "We'll handle it."
She searched his eyes. "You sure?"
"We've survived worse."
By evening, their PR team had already begun damage control. But this time, Nina didn't want to hide. She wanted to reclaim her voice before someone else spun it.
She sat on the floor of the nursery with her laptop and wrote a post.
"Growth is uncomfortable. I've questioned love, I've feared change, and I've doubted the man I now call my peace. We are all allowed evolution. Mine just happens to be on display. But I'm no longer ashamed of the process. Only proud of the destination."
She clicked "Post" and closed the screen.
Sebastian joined her on the floor, placing a hand on her belly. "Do you think our child will read all this someday?"
"Maybe."
"What do you want them to take from it?"
She didn't hesitate. "That truth bends, heals, and still stands. And that love is stronger when it's forged, not gifted."
He nodded. "Then we'll show them that every day."
The two of them sat there in the unfinished nursery, no longer afraid of storms outside or within.
Because this time, they weren't bracing for impact.
They were ready to bloom through it.