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."
Edward sighed, his eyes glistening.
"Some abnormalities only show up as the pregnancy progresses," he said gently.
He held the report out to me, pointing at a line of clinical text.
"See here? Severe cardiac underdevelopment. Multiple organ malformations." His voice cracked. "Even if the baby is born, survival rate is essentially zero."
His hands were shaking. He looked gutted.
But my gaze had drifted to something else.
The scar on his right hand—a pale ridge across the web between thumb and forefinger.
The same scar I'd seen in the profile picture of the man who'd made that post.
Identical.
My blood turned to ice.
If I remembered correctly, that scar was three months old.
I'd been two months pregnant then. We were leaving the hospital after a routine checkup when a massive wolfdog—unleashed, teeth bared—came charging straight at me.
Edward didn't hesitate. He threw himself between me and that massive dog, fighting it off with nothing but his bare hands.
In the end, the beast sank its teeth into the web of flesh between his thumb and forefinger, tearing away a chunk.
Blood everywhere. Seventeen stitches.
I'd cried until my eyes were raw, but Edward just smiled through the pain and pulled me close.