Two weeks after my father's visit, the nausea started.
At first, I dismissed it, stress, anxiety, something I ate. But as it continued for days, I found myself running to the bathroom every morning, feeling terrible as suspicion began to grow.
I hadn't had my cycle since before the wedding. In all the chaos, I hadn't even noticed.
Caterina found me one morning, pale and trembling against the bathroom sink. "Seraphina? Are you ill?"
"I don't know. I've been feeling off for a while now. Nauseous, tired."
Caterina's eyes widened. Then she smiled, a slow, knowing smile that made my heart skip. "How long has it been since your last cycle?"
I did the math. My stomach dropped for an entirely different reason. "Oh God."
"Oh God indeed." Caterina pulled me into a hug. "My dear girl, I think you need to see a doctor."
The estate physician confirmed it within the hour. I was pregnant, approximately eight weeks along, he estimated. Due in late spring.
I sat in the garden afterward, my hand pressed to my stomach, trying to process. A baby. Eric's baby. Our baby.
But what would this mean for the war with Isabel? For the elders' demands? For everything?
Eric found me there at sunset. He was very curious. "Caterina said you needed to see me? Is everything okay?"
I took a deep breath. "Eric, I need to tell you something."
"What is it? You look pale. Are you sick? Should I call the physician?"
"No, I'm not sick. I'm" I stood, taking his hands and placing them on my stomach. "I'm pregnant. We're going to have a baby."
For a long moment, he didn't move. Didn't speak. His amber eyes went wide, searching my face for any hint of a joke. Then, slowly, the most beautiful smile I'd ever seen spread across his features.
"A baby?" His voice cracked. "Our baby?"
"Our baby."
He dropped to his knees, pressing his face against my stomach, his shoulders shaking. When he looked up, there were tears in his eyes. "You've given me everything, Seraphina. Everything I never knew I wanted."
"I haven't given you anything yet. Isabel"
"To hell with Isabel." He stood, pulling me close. "Let her scheme. Let her threaten. You're carrying my child. That changes everything."
That night, he made love to me with a tenderness that brought tears to my eyes. He kissed my stomach repeatedly, whispering promises to our unborn child in Italian, his hands gentle where they'd once been demanding.
"I'm going to be the father I never had," he vowed. "I'm going to give this baby everything. Love, security, a legacy worth inheriting."
"You already are," I whispered. "You already are."
He moved over me, his body warm and familiar, his eyes locked on mine. "Thank you," he whispered between kisses. "Thank you for everything."
"Thank me by being the best father you can be."
"I will. I swear it."
Our joining was slow and deep, a celebration of the life we'd created together. When we finally lay spent in each other's arms, his hand never left my stomach.
"I can't believe you're mine," he murmured. "I can't believe you're carrying my child."
"Believe it." I pulled him closer. "We're building something, Eric. Something that matters."
The days that followed were filled with a new kind of joy.
Eric became even more attentive, if that was possible. He read every pregnancy book he could find, highlighting passages and taking notes as he was studying for a final exam. He consulted with chefs about nutrition, with designers about a nursery, and with security about keeping me safe.
"You're going overboard," I told him one evening, watching him measure the nursery for the tenth time.
"I'm being thorough."
"You're being obsessive."
He paused, tape measure in hand, and looked at me. "I've waited twelve years for you. I've waited my whole life for a family. Let me have this."
My heart melted. "Okay. Obsess away."
He crossed the room and pulled me into his arms. "I love you. I love this baby. I love everything about this life we're building."
"I love you too."
He kissed me softly, then deeper, and we ended up christening the empty nursery right there on the floor. It was spontaneous, passionate, and perfect.
Afterward, lying on the soft carpet, he traced patterns on my belly. "A girl," he said. "I'm sure of it."
"A girl?"
"A little girl with your eyes and my stubbornness. She'll be impossible."
I laughed. "She'll be perfect."
"She'll be both." He kissed my stomach. "Just like her mother."