The morning sickness had declared itself a relentless king. After two mornings of kneeling before the porcelain throne, Ariyah emerged pale and shaky to find Wayne already off the phone, his expression a blend of steel and tenderness.
"Dr. Evelyn Vance. Crestwood Women's Center. In ninety minutes," he stated, his voice leaving no room for debate. He came to her, his hands framing her face, his thumbs stroking her cool cheeks. "The best. And completely private. We're getting answers, and we're getting you help."
Ariyah simply nodded, leaning into his solid strength. The secret was blooming into a physical reality that demanded a new language one of medicine and care, not just whispers and wonder.
The Crestwood Center was a sanctuary of hushed efficiency. Dr. Vance, with her intelligent eyes and serene confidence, immediately put Ariyah at ease. She didn't flinch at Wayne's formidable presence; she greeted him as a vital part of the process.
"We'll start with blood work to confirm hormone levels and get a good date," Dr. Vance explained, deftly drawing vials. "Then, let's see if we can get a visual on things."
As they waited for the lab, the ultrasound began. The room was dark, quiet. Ariyah clutched Wayne's hand. On the monitor, a grey, nebulous world came into focus. And then a small, perfect circle. Inside it, a tiny, relentless flicker.
Whump-whump-whump-whump.
The sound of their baby's heartbeat filled the silence. It was a primal drum, a claim on the future. Ariyah's breath hitched. She looked at Wayne. The controlled businessman was gone. He was staring, utterly transfixed, his lips parted, his eyes wide and shimmering in the screen's glow. He brought her hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss so fervent it felt like a vow against her skin.
"Strong heartbeat," Dr. Vance said softly, a smile in her voice. "Measuring perfectly." The blood work confirmed it robustly. A due date was etched into history: October 28th.
Then came the counsel. Dr. Vance turned practical, addressing both of them. "Alright, let's talk about management. First, the nausea." She handed Ariyah a sample pack. "Vitamin B6, 25 milligrams, combined with Unisom sleep tab (doxylamine), half a tablet at night. This is the first-line, gold-standard for morning sickness. Safe, effective. Take it at bedtime, it'll help through the next day."
Wayne immediately pulled out his phone, opening his notes app. "Dosage? Frequency? Any interactions?" he asked, his voice focused.
"Just as I said. B6 and half a Unisom at night. No other medications unless you clear them with me. Also," she turned to Ariyah, "small, frequent meals. Empty stomach makes it worse. Keep bland crackers by the bed, eat one before you even sit up. Ginger tea, ginger candies. Cold, bland foods sometimes sit better think applesauce, yogurt."
Wayne was typing furiously. "Crackers by the bed. Ginger. Cold foods. Noted."
"Now, for general health," Dr. Vance continued, handing Ariyah a large bag of samples and prescriptions. "Prenatal vitamins with at least 400 micrograms of folic acid and DHA. Start today. They might make you a bit queasy, so take them with your largest meal, usually dinner." She listed the prohibitions: "No alcohol, obviously. Limit caffeine to one small cup a day. No raw fish, no unpasteurized cheese, no deli meats unless heated steaming hot. No hot tubs or saunas. No heavy lifting."
Wayne's head snapped up from his phone. "Lifting? What's the weight limit?"
"Nothing over fifteen to twenty pounds. Listen to your body. Fatigue is normal. Your body is building a human and a whole new organ the placenta. Rest is not lazy, it's essential."
"Exercise?" Wayne fired back.
"Moderate is excellent. Walking, swimming, prenatal yoga. Nothing that risks a fall or abdominal impact. No contact sports." She looked at Wayne's intense, worried face and softened. "She's healthy, Mr. Collins. This is about smart maintenance, not illness."
Finally, she addressed the spotting from the previous week. "Given the early spotting, I'm going to prescribe vaginal progesterone supplements. It's a precaution to support the uterine lining. You'll insert it nightly." She explained the process calmly.
Wayne's questions were relentless, meticulous. "Side effects of the progesterone? Risks of the B6/Unisom long-term? What are the exact symptoms that would warrant an immediate call to you versus going to the ER? What's your direct line?"
Dr. Vance answered each one with patience, finally writing her personal cell number on a card. "Call for severe pain, heavy bleeding, or if the nausea becomes debilitating and you can't keep liquids down. Otherwise, we'll see you in four weeks."
They left the clinic feeling weighted down with information, samples, and a profound new reality. In the car, Wayne didn't start the engine. He just held the grainy sonogram photo, his finger tracing the tiny sac.
"October," he finally breathed, the word full of awe. He looked at her, his eyes blazing with a protective, joyful ferocity. "We're having a baby." Then, the pragmatist returned. "We'll stop at the pharmacy on the way home. I'll have Mrs. Henderson prepare ginger tea and get the crackers."
The bubble of private, medically-sanctioned joy lasted precisely thirty-six hours.
The intrusion came via Robert Hale, Wayne's attorney, whose grim face clashed with the sunny sunroom. He laid a thick legal petition beside Ariyah's ginger tea and her tort law textbook.
"Your uncle David," Robert stated. "He's contesting the entire will in probate court."
A cold wave washed over Ariyah. Wayne went preternaturally still.
"Grounds?" Wayne's voice was a low vibration.
"Undue influence. Lack of testamentary capacity. He alleges you, Mr. Collins, manipulated the late Mr. Jones to insert the marriage and heir clauses, funneling the Jones assets to yourself. He's calling the marriage a strategic fraud."
The air turned to ice. This wasn't just about money. It was a scorched-earth attack on their union's very soul, on Wayne's honor.
Ariyah felt a surge of fire. "It's a lie."
"A calculated lie," Wayne corrected, his voice now a honed blade. The concerned expectant father was eclipsed by the sovereign. "They're targeting her. Trying to break us publicly to get a settlement." He looked at Ariyah, his gaze fierce. "They will fail."
Robert outlined the ugly PR war: the vulnerable heiress, the predatory tycoon.
"Then we own the narrative," Ariyah said, her voice steady, the lawyer in her rising. "We show the facts. The 42% growth of the Jones holdings under Wayne's stewardship. Affidavits from my grandfather's medical team. We subpoena my uncle's finances he's been mismanaging his own affairs for years."
Wayne listened, pride flashing in his eyes. "We fight them in court with facts," he said. "And we dismantle them in the shadows. Robert, I want a forensic audit of David Jones's last decade. Find every skeleton."
The preliminary hearing was a media gauntlet. Ariyah, in a powerful cream suit, walked beside Wayne, his hand an unbreakable anchor on her back. Inside, her uncle's lawyer spewed veiled accusations. Wayne remained a statue of contempt.
Their counter was swift. Robert Hale entered a single financial report into evidence. "A forty-two percent increase in the Jones trust under Mr. Collins's advisory management," he stated. "Hardly the act of a man needing to defraud a dying man."
Outside, cameras flashed. A reporter yelled, "Mr. Collins! Allegations of undue influence?"
Wayne stopped, drew Ariyah close, and faced the scrum, his voice cutting through the noise. "My only influence has been to love my wife and honor her grandfather's legacy by growing it for her . The facts," he said, icy disdain in his gaze, "will speak for themselves."
That night, the clash of public venom and private wonder needed resolution. Before anything else, Wayne brought her the little paper cup: the prenatal vitamin, the B6, and the half-tab of Unisom. He watched her take them, his brow furrowed with concentration, as if ensuring the ritual was perfect.
Then, the care exploded into something else. The need to physically reclaim their truth from the day's poison was overwhelming. Their lovemaking was fierce, a desperate, wordless reaffirmation against the wall, then in their bed. You are mine. This is real. This is ours.
After, spent and tangled, Wayne reached for the sonogram. He held it between them, the tiny flicker a silent beacon.
"This," he rasped, his voice raw with emotion, "is the only legacy that matters. Everything else is noise. And I will silence it all for this. For you."
He kissed her, a seal on the promise. As they drifted to sleep, his hand rested on her belly, a warm, protective shield over the life within, guarding it from the distant thunder of the legal storm. The battle for the past raged, but the future, anchored by progesterone and prenatal vitamins, by his relentless questions and her steady strength, was already their unassailable fortress.