Chapter 9 The Ultrasound

The weeks following our engagement passed in a whirlwind of activity. Alexander threw himself into wedding preparations with the same methodical thoroughness he applied to business acquisitions, creating spreadsheets and timelines that made me laugh with their precision. It was endearing to watch this famously controlled man fret over flower arrangements and cake tastings as if they were billion-dollar deals.

"The caterer needs final numbers by Friday," he announced one morning, consulting his tablet over breakfast. "And the florist wants to know if we're still committed to white tulips as the primary flower, or if we want to incorporate other spring blooms."

"Just the tulips," I replied, amused by his seriousness. "And the guest list should be finalized. It's only thirty people."

Alexander nodded, making a note. "Small, as agreed. Though my PR team is still pushing for at least one society photographer to document the ceremony."

"Absolutely not," I said firmly. "This isn't a publicity event."

He looked up, his expression softening. "Agreed. I just wanted to confirm we're aligned."

This was our new dynamic—consultation rather than dictation, partnership rather than possession. It wasn't always smooth sailing; Alexander's controlling tendencies didn't disappear overnight, and my independence had only grown stronger during my months alone in San Francisco. But we were learning, adjusting, finding a balance that worked for us.

The most significant change was physical. After years of keeping our relationship hidden, Alexander now seemed intent on publicly claiming me as his. His hand would find the small of my back when we walked together; he'd kiss me goodbye in front of his staff without hesitation. It was as if a dam had broken, allowing him to express the possessiveness he'd always felt but previously contained.

At twenty-eight weeks pregnant, my body had transformed dramatically. The elegant curve of my second trimester had blossomed into a proper baby bump that made strangers smile and offer seats on public transportation. Alexander watched these changes with fascination, his hands often finding their way to my stomach during quiet moments.

"We have the anatomy scan today," I reminded him, glancing at the clock. "Dr. Ramirez's office at eleven."

Alexander immediately checked his calendar. "I've blocked the entire day. The markets can survive without me for one afternoon."

This, too, was new—Alexander Sterling, notorious workaholic, rearranging his schedule for family priorities. The board of Sterling Financial was still adjusting to their CEO's transformed priorities, though so far, the company hadn't suffered. If anything, Alexander seemed more focused, more decisive in his limited working hours.

"Do you want to find out the sex?" I asked, the question we'd been dancing around for weeks.

Alexander considered this carefully. "I'm curious, of course. But there's something appealing about the surprise." His lips curved in a rare smile. "Perhaps this is one area where I don't need to control all variables."

I laughed, delighted by this admission. "Alexander Sterling embracing uncertainty? I should mark this day on the calendar."

"Only in very select circumstances," he clarified, but his eyes remained warm.

Dr. Ramirez's office was bright and welcoming as always, the waiting room filled with expectant parents in various stages of pregnancy. I noticed Alexander's subtle assessment of the space—calculating exit routes, identifying potential threats, the habits of a man who lived with caution. Even here, in this peaceful setting, his protective instincts remained vigilant.

"Mr. and Mrs. Sterling?" the nurse called, using a title I hadn't yet claimed.

Alexander's hand pressed gently against my back as we followed her to the examination room. "Not for another five weeks," I whispered, referring to our wedding date.

"A technicality," he murmured back, his possessive streak showing.

Dr. Ramirez greeted us warmly as I settled onto the examination table. "How are you feeling, Sophia? Any concerns since our last appointment?"

"Just the usual—backaches, swollen ankles, this little gymnast performing somersaults at three in the morning," I replied, rubbing my stomach affectionately.

"All normal," she assured me, then turned to Alexander. "And how are you adjusting to impending fatherhood, Mr. Sterling?"

The question seemed to catch him off guard. Most people didn't dare ask Alexander Sterling personal questions, and medical professionals typically focused on me, the actual patient. His momentary silence spoke volumes.

"I'm... preparing," he said finally, his usual eloquence failing him.

Dr. Ramirez smiled knowingly. "That's all any of us can do. Shall we take a look at your baby?"

The cold gel on my stomach was familiar now, as was the pressure of the ultrasound wand as Dr. Ramirez moved it expertly across my skin. What wasn't familiar was Alexander's reaction when our baby appeared on the screen—a perfect profile view, much clearer than our earlier scans.

"Oh," he said softly, the single syllable containing a universe of emotion.

Dr. Ramirez smiled. "Good positioning today. See here? The spine, the ribcage, the chambers of the heart—all developing beautifully."

I watched Alexander more than the screen, fascinated by the transformation of his expression. The man who negotiated billion-dollar deals without blinking, who faced down corporate raiders and hostile takeovers with icy composure, looked utterly undone by the grainy image of our child.

"The measurements are right on track for twenty-eight weeks," Dr. Ramirez continued. "Good amniotic fluid levels, strong heartbeat at 147 beats per minute."

As if responding to the discussion, our baby shifted position, a tiny hand appearing to wave at the screen. The movement was so human, so deliberately communicative, that I laughed in delight.

Alexander made a strange sound—something between a gasp and a laugh. When I glanced at him, I was stunned to see moisture in his eyes, quickly blinked away but unmistakable.

"Would you like to know the sex?" Dr. Ramirez asked, looking between us.

Alexander and I exchanged glances, having a silent conversation with our eyes—a skill we'd developed over years of hiding our relationship in public settings.

"No," we said simultaneously, then smiled at our synchronicity.

"We'll wait," I clarified. "We've decided we want to be surprised."

"Perfect," Dr. Ramirez said approvingly. "Not many couples choose that route anymore, but there's something magical about that delivery room moment." She pressed a few buttons, capturing still images. "I'll print these for you to take home."

As she continued the examination, pointing out various developmental milestones, Alexander remained transfixed by the screen, his hand finding mine and gripping it tightly. I squeezed back, understanding the magnitude of what was happening. This wasn't just a medical appointment; it was the moment our child became undeniably real to him—not an abstract concept or a responsibility, but a person.

When Dr. Ramirez finished and left us alone to clean up before our follow-up discussion, Alexander remained motionless beside the examination table, staring at the now-blank screen.

"Alexander?" I prompted gently. "Are you okay?"

He turned to me, his composure visibly reassembling itself, but not quite reaching his eyes. "Yes. Just... processing."

I smiled, reaching up to touch his face. "It's overwhelming, isn't it? Seeing them so clearly."

"I've reviewed the development literature extensively," he said, falling back on facts and research as he always did when emotions threatened to overwhelm him. "At twenty-eight weeks, the fetal nervous system is developed enough to process sensory input. They can hear voices, recognize patterns of sound."

"Is that why you've been reading financial reports aloud at night?" I teased. "Getting an early start on business education?"

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "It's what I know. Though perhaps I should diversify the curriculum."

When we returned to Dr. Ramirez's office for the consultation portion of our visit, she handed us a folder containing the ultrasound images.

"Everything looks perfect," she assured us. "The baby is in the 60th percentile for growth—right where we want to be. Not too big, not too small."

Alexander studied the images with the intensity he usually reserved for company financials. "The positioning suggests head-down. Is that correct?"

Dr. Ramirez nodded, looking impressed. "Yes, though at this stage, they still have plenty of room to flip around. Most babies don't settle into their final position until 34-36 weeks."

"And the risk factors for premature labor?" Alexander continued, clearly having done extensive research. "Given Sophia's family history of early deliveries?"

I blinked in surprise. I'd mentioned my mother's experience with premature labor once, months ago. The fact that Alexander had not only remembered but researched it touched me deeply.

"We're monitoring closely," Dr. Ramirez assured him. "But so far, there are no indicators of concern. Cervical length is normal, no signs of preterm contractions."

Alexander nodded, absorbing this information with visible relief. As we left the medical building, he remained uncharacteristically quiet, the ultrasound images clutched carefully in his hand.

"Lunch?" I suggested, hoping to draw him out of his thoughts.

"Yes," he agreed absently, helping me into the car with his usual attentiveness.

Instead of one of our regular restaurants, Alexander drove to the waterfront park where he'd proposed. It was a clear spring day, the bay glittering beneath the sunshine, the white tulips in the nearby gardens beginning to bloom—a preview of our wedding flowers.

After purchasing sandwiches from a nearby café, we settled on "our" bench overlooking the water. Alexander unwrapped my food with careful precision, making sure I was comfortable before turning to his own lunch.

"You're very quiet," I observed after several minutes of silence. "What are you thinking about?"

Alexander set down his sandwich, untouched. "I'm thinking about what Dr. Ramirez said—that the baby can hear us now. Recognize our voices."

"Yes?"

"I'm thinking about my father," he continued, his voice controlled but with an undertone of emotion. "When I was born, he was in Tokyo closing a deal. He didn't hold me until I was two weeks old."

The casual revelation of this childhood wound explained so much about Alexander's determination to be present, to be involved in every aspect of our baby's development.

"You're not your father," I reminded him gently.

"No," he agreed, looking out over the water. "But I could have been. Six months ago, I was on the same path—prioritizing business above all else, viewing personal relationships as strategic assets rather than emotional connections."

"What changed?" I asked, though I suspected I knew the answer.

Alexander turned to me, his expression more open than I'd ever seen it. "You left. And in your absence, I realized that all the success, all the power I'd accumulated meant nothing if I became Richard Sterling in the process."

He reached into his pocket and withdrew the ultrasound images, handling them as if they were priceless artifacts. "And now, seeing this..." His voice faltered slightly. "This is real. This is happening. In three months, we'll be responsible for a human life."

The vulnerability in his voice moved me deeply. I placed my hand over his, our fingers overlapping on the ultrasound image. "We will. And you'll be wonderful at it."

Alexander looked skeptical. "How can you be so certain? I have no model for good fatherhood, no experience with children."

"Because I've watched you these past months," I said simply. "The nursery research, the prenatal vitamins, the way you talk to the baby at night when you think I'm asleep. You're already being a father, Alexander. A good one."

Something in my words seemed to reach him, easing the tension in his shoulders. He lifted my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. "Thank you," he said softly.

We finished our lunch in companionable silence, watching sailboats glide across the bay. As we prepared to leave, Alexander's phone chimed with a message.

"The nursery furniture has arrived," he announced after checking the screen. "The delivery team is waiting for instructions."

I smiled at his barely concealed eagerness. "Then we should head home. I can't wait to see everything in place."

The remainder of the day passed in a flurry of activity as delivery men carried pieces of custom-made furniture into the nursery. Alexander supervised every detail with the same attention he would give to a major business installation, measuring distances between pieces, checking the stability of each item.

"The crib needs to be at least three feet from the window," he instructed, consulting what appeared to be a safety manual on his tablet. "And the changing table should have easy access to supplies without requiring the caregiver to turn away from the infant."

I watched from the doorway, amused by his precision yet touched by the care behind it. This was Alexander's way of expressing love—through meticulous preparation, through anticipating and addressing every possible need or danger.

After the delivery team departed, Alexander remained in the nursery, personally testing the sturdiness of the crib rails, adjusting the height of the mobile, arranging stuffed animals with surprising attention to their positioning.

"Are you building a fortress?" I teased gently, watching him triple-check the safety latches on the dresser drawers.

He looked up, slightly embarrassed at being caught in such obsessive behavior. "Perhaps," he admitted. "Is that excessive?"

"No," I said softly, crossing the room to stand beside him. "It's sweet. Our baby will be the most protected child in San Francisco."

Alexander's hand found my stomach, a gesture that had become natural over the past weeks. As if on cue, the baby kicked vigorously against his palm.

"Strong," he observed, a hint of pride in his voice. "Like its mother."

"And determined, like its father," I added, covering his hand with mine.

That evening, after dinner, I found Alexander in his study, surrounded not by financial reports but by parenting books. The desk that usually held market analyses and contract negotiations was covered with volumes on infant development, sleep training, and early childhood education.

"Light reading?" I asked from the doorway.

Alexander glanced up, caught in the act of highlighting passages in "The Expectant Father." "Research," he corrected, though his lips quirked in a small smile.

I crossed to perch on the edge of his desk, picking up one of the books. "You know, most people just figure parenting out as they go along."

"Most people are unprepared," he countered. "I prefer a strategic approach."

"Of course you do," I laughed. "But babies don't always follow strategies, Alexander. Sometimes they just need love and patience."

He set down his highlighter, looking suddenly serious. "That's what concerns me."

"What does?"

"Love and patience," he repeated. "I excel at strategy, at planning, at resource allocation. But the emotional aspects of parenting..." He hesitated. "Those don't come naturally to me."

The admission clearly cost him, this acknowledgment of what he perceived as weakness. I slid from the desk into his lap, an intimacy we'd only recently reclaimed.

"Do you remember our first date?" I asked, wrapping my arms around his neck.

Alexander raised an eyebrow. "The Met gala wasn't a date. You were there curating the art installation, and I was a patron."

"Not that," I corrected. "Our actual first date, when you invited me to dinner at Per Se after the exhibition closed."

His expression softened at the memory. "You wore a blue dress. Talked about Modigliani for two hours. I didn't understand half of it, but I couldn't look away from your face."

"And you claimed to know nothing about art," I reminded him. "Yet three weeks later, when we met again, you had somehow become an expert on Modigliani's influences and techniques."

"Research," he said simply.

"Exactly." I touched his face gently. "You didn't know how to appreciate art, so you learned. You didn't know how to love, so you're learning that too. You'll approach fatherhood the same way—methodically, thoroughly, with complete commitment."

Alexander's arms tightened around me. "And if that's not enough?"

"It will be," I assured him. "Because beneath all the research and preparation is the most important thing—you care. Deeply. You may not express it the way others do, but I see it. Our child will see it too."

Later that night, as we prepared for bed, Alexander disappeared into his study again, returning with a small glass of whiskey—unusual for him on a weeknight.

"Everything okay?" I asked, noting the tension in his shoulders.

He nodded, taking a deliberate sip before setting the glass aside. "I need to tell you something. About today. About the ultrasound."

"What is it?" I sat up against the headboard, suddenly concerned.

Alexander paced the room, his usual composure fractured. "When I saw our child on that screen—moving, waving, so clearly alive—I felt something I've never experienced before."

"That's normal," I assured him. "Many parents feel overwhelmed at ultrasounds."

"Not overwhelmed," he corrected, stopping his pacing to look at me directly. "Terrified."

The admission hung in the air between us. Alexander Sterling, who faced down corporate raiders and market crashes without blinking, admitting to fear.

"Terrified of what?" I asked gently.

"Of becoming my father." The words seemed torn from him. "Of looking at our child one day and seeing an obligation rather than a person. Of failing at the one thing that truly matters."

I held out my hand to him. After a moment's hesitation, he took it, sitting on the edge of the bed beside me.

"I'm terrified too," I confessed. "Every parent is. The fact that you're worried about failing means you probably won't."

"How can you be so certain?"

"Because I know you," I said simply. "The man who researches infant safety standards at three in the morning. The man who plays classical music for an unborn child. The man who's more concerned with being a good father than preserving his corporate image."

Alexander's expression remained troubled. "Richard was attentive before I was born. Had the nursery painted, hired the best nanny. Then reality set in, and I became an afterthought—a continuation of the Sterling name, nothing more."

I squeezed his hand. "You already proved you won't follow his path. The moment you chose us over Sterling Financial, you broke the cycle."

Something in my words seemed to reach him. He brought my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my palm. "I hope you're right."

"I am," I said confidently. "Our child—Lilia or Lucian—will never doubt they're loved. Not for a moment."

As Alexander's tension gradually eased, he stretched out beside me on the bed, one hand resting protectively over my stomach. In the quiet darkness of our bedroom, I felt the final walls between us continuing to crumble—not all at once, but steadily, as Alexander Sterling learned that vulnerability wasn't weakness but the deepest kind of strength.

"Rest," he murmured, pulling the covers over us both. "Tomorrow I'm installing the car seat. The manual is only forty-seven pages, but the online safety forums recommend additional stabilization techniques."

I laughed softly, nestling into his embrace. "Of course they do. And of course you've read all forty-seven pages already."

"Twice," he confirmed seriously, though I could hear the smile in his voice. "Nothing but the best for our child."

As I drifted toward sleep, I felt Alexander's lips press gently against my forehead—a tender gesture from a man still learning the language of affection but determined to become fluent for the sake of his family.