From Divorce to Billionaire’s Baby

Chapter 12: An Unexpected Gift

It’s been a few days since the appointment, and I’ve been trying to settle back into my routine, but everything feels different now. Every quiet moment, my mind drifts back to that afternoon at the clinic, the sound of our baby’s heartbeat, Ryan’s hand in mine, the warmth of his smile when he heard we were having a girl. It all plays in a loop, mingling with the cautious optimism I feel for what might lie ahead.

I have kept things light with Ryan since then, exchanging a few texts here and there about the baby, but we haven’t talked about anything too serious. It feels like we’re both treading carefully, trying to navigate this new territory without rushing into anything too fast. And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted between us.

It’s a Thursday afternoon, and I’m at the office, buried in emails and meetings, when there’s a soft knock on my door. I glance up, surprised to see our receptionist standing there with an awkward smile.

“Ms. Tess, there’s a delivery for you,” she says, stepping into the room with a large bouquet of lilies cradled in her arms. The flowers are beautiful, their delicate white petals standing out against the soft green leaves. The scent is intoxicating, filling the small space with a fresh, floral fragrance that immediately lifts my mood.

“For me?” I blink, setting down my pen. I can’t remember the last time someone sent me flowers, let alone such an elegant arrangement.

“There’s more,” she adds, handing me a small, neatly wrapped package. “This came with it.”

My heart skips a beat as I take the package from her, my fingers tingling with anticipation. There’s no card, no note, but something tells me this has Ryan’s name all over it.

“Thanks, I’ll take it from here,” I say, trying to sound casual as I place the lilies on my desk and unwrap the package.

As the paper falls away, I’m met with a simple white frame, and inside, displayed against a soft, cream-colored background, is the ultrasound picture of our daughter. The grainy image of her tiny form stares back at me, and suddenly, I’m flooded with emotion. It’s a beautiful, thoughtful gesture, and for a moment, I can’t breathe.

The frame is minimalist, but elegant, just like Ryan’s taste, and there’s a small engraving at the bottom in delicate, cursive script that reads: “Our Little Miracle”.

I run my fingers over the words, feeling a lump form in my throat. This is more than just a gift. It’s a reminder of the bond we share, the life we’re bringing into the world together. Ryan didn’t have to do this, and yet, he did. And somehow, it feels like a promise, one that he’s committed to being here, to being a part of this journey, no matter what happens between us.

I sit there for a moment, staring at the ultrasound photo, feeling the weight of it all sink in. The bouquet of lilies sits beside me, their fragrance still filling the room, and I can’t help but smile. Lilies were always my favourite, and of course, I am shocked Ryan would know that.

After a few moments, I pull out my phone, my hands trembling just slightly as I type out a message.

Me: Ryan, thank you for the flowers and the frame. It’s beautiful. I don’t know what to say...

His reply comes almost instantly.

Ryan: I’m glad you like them. I wanted you to have something special. For both of us.

I stare at the screen, my heart beating a little faster than usual. There’s something about the simplicity of his words that stirs something deep inside me. For a long time, I’ve been holding onto the past, to the hurt and the mistakes we’ve both made. But right now, in this moment, it feels like maybe we’re turning a corner. Maybe we really can start over.

Me: It means a lot to me. To us.

There’s a pause before his next message comes through.

Ryan: I meant what I said, Tess. I’m all in. Whatever it takes.

A warmth spreads through me, soft and slow, like the lilies blooming beside me. I close my eyes, letting the emotions wash over me, and for the first time in a long time, I feel... hopeful.

Maybe this is the beginning of something new. Something real.

With the ultrasound photo now sitting proudly on my desk, I glance out the window, my heart full, and a quiet smile on my lips. There’s still a long road ahead, but for now, for today, things feel just a little bit brighter. And maybe, just maybe, everything will turn out okay.

I take photos of the flowers and send them through to grandpa. I mentioned it to him that Ryan joined me for the doctor’s appointment, and he was amused Ryan took a step closer to being there for me and the baby.

As the day winds down, I gather my things, still stealing glances at the ultrasound photo framed on my desk. The lilies are a soft reminder of Ryan’s gesture, their scent lingering in the air long after I’ve tidied up my workspace. I tuck the frame gently into my bag, feeling a little more at peace, a little more connected to the life growing inside me.

Outside, the cool October breeze greets me as I step into the fading light of the evening. The day had been long, yet something about it feels unfinished, like a chapter still waiting to be written. My driver, a quiet older man named Henry, pulls up in front of the office, the sleek black car shining under the streetlights.

"Evening, Miss Tess," he says warmly, tipping his hat slightly as he opens the door for me.

"Evening, Henry," I respond with a smile, climbing into the back seat. I settle into the familiar leather seat, my mind still swirling with thoughts of Ryan, our daughter, and what the future might hold.

As we drive through the city, the bustling streets slowly give way to quieter residential areas, the steady hum of the car lulling me into a reflective state. I gaze out the window, watching the world pass by, the blur of lights and shadows reminding me of how fleeting everything feels these days.

A soft sigh escapes me, and my thoughts drift back to Ryan, back to that moment when everything was still new and full of promise. What would life have been like if we hadn’t divorced? Would we be sitting together in our home right now, picking out baby names, painting a nursery? Would we have navigated the hard times differently, found a way to bridge the gap that seemed to widen between us with every argument, every misunderstanding?

The past feels like a series of missteps, missed opportunities that led us down a path neither of us expected. And yet, here we are, about to become parents. I close my eyes for a moment, letting the weight of it all settle over me. It’s overwhelming, thinking about the life we could have had, the life we might still have if things were different.

As the car turns onto my street, the familiar sight of my apartment building looms ahead. I wonder how different things would be if we had stayed together. Would I even be living here, alone? Would Ryan and I have found a home that felt like ours, where we would sit in the evenings and talk about our day, about the future? Would we have found a way to grow together instead of apart?

It’s a thought that lingers as the car slows to a stop in front of my building. Henry steps out and opens the door for me once again, his steady presence grounding me in the present.

"Thank you, Henry," I say softly, stepping out of the car and into the crisp evening air. The weight of the day, of the past few days, presses down on me as I make my way into the building, my footsteps echoing softly in the empty lobby.

Once inside my apartment, I flick on the lights, the quiet hum of the city outside filling the space. It’s a nice place, modern and sleek, but it’s never quite felt like home. Not the way I imagined a home would feel. The rooms are too quiet, too still, as if they’re waiting for something, or someone, to fill them with life.

I set my bag down on the kitchen counter, pulling out the frame with the ultrasound photo. For a moment, I just stand there, staring at it, my heart swelling with both joy and uncertainty. This is real. Our daughter is real. And no matter what happens between Ryan and me, she’ll be here soon, changing everything.

I walk over to the small living room, placing the frame on the mantel above the fireplace. It feels strange to see it there, a reminder of the future in a space that’s always felt stuck in the past.

Sinking into the couch, I pull a blanket over me, letting the quiet of the evening settle in. I wonder if we could have made it work if we had just tried harder, held on a little longer.

But then, would we be here now, with this second chance at something different? Something maybe even better?

I lean back against the cushions, closing my eyes and allowing myself to dream, just for a moment, of what life could still be. Perhaps the divorce was not the end, but a reset, a way to rediscover who we are and what we really want. Maybe there’s still hope for us, for our family, even if it’s not the version I once imagined.

As the night deepens, I can’t help but feel that flicker of hope growing stronger, the thought that maybe, just maybe, Ryan and I are not finished yet.