Jocelyn’s POV
The waiting room at Dr. Patel's office is mercifully empty.
We arrive fifteen minutes early for the eight-week ultrasound, and I'm grateful for the quiet. No other expectant couples to make small talk with, no cheerful magazine covers about perfect pregnancies and glowing mothers.
Just Zayden and me, sitting in uncomfortable chairs, holding hands like we're anchoring each other.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Terrified." I watch the receptionist behind her desk, trying to focus on something other than the swirling anxiety. "What if the heartbeat's not there? What if something's wrong?"
"Everything is gonna be okay, just trust me." His thumb strokes across my knuckles. "Do you trust me, Jocelyn?"
“I—”
"Jocelyn Wolfe?" A nurse appears in the doorway, clipboard in hand.
We follow her back to an exam room that smells like antiseptic and possibility. She takes my vitals—blood pressure slightly elevated, pulse racing—then hands me a gown.
"Dr. Patel will be right in. Change from the waist down."
After she leaves, I strip off my pants and underwear with shaking hands. The paper gown crinkles as I arrange it across my lap.
Zayden's pacing the small room, radiating nervous energy he's trying to control.
"Sit down," I tell him. "You're making me more anxious."
He sits in the chair beside the exam table, takes my hand again. "Sorry."
A knock, then Dr. Patel enters—mid-fifties, warm brown eyes, the kind of calm competence that makes you believe everything will be fine even when you're certain it won't.
"Jocelyn, Zayden." She settles onto her stool, reviews something on her tablet. "First ultrasound today. How are you feeling?"
"Nauseous, tired and utterly scared." The honesty tumbles out. "We're here because I need to know if this baby has the same genetic risks as our daughter."
Dr. Patel's expression softens. "I read through Mia's medical history. Acute lymphoblastic leukemia at eighteen months, full remission after treatment, currently three years cancer-free. That's excellent."
"But the genetic component—"
"Is something we'll address comprehensively." She rolls her stool closer. "First, let's confirm viability and get baseline measurements. Then we'll discuss genetic testing options."
She applies gel to my stomach—cold, clinical—then presses the ultrasound wand against my skin.
For a long moment, there's nothing but static on the screen.
My chest tightens. Too long. It's taking too long.
Then—there.
A rapid flutter. Fast, strong, impossibly beautiful.
"There's your baby," Dr. Patel says, adjusting the screen. "Heartbeat is 168 beats per minute. Perfect for eight weeks."
The sound fills the room—whoosh-whoosh-whoosh—like a tiny drum beating out proof of life.
I can't breathe. Can't process. Can only stare at that flickering pulse on the screen.
Zayden's hand tightens around mine, and when I glance at him, there are tears tracking down his face.
"That's our baby," he whispers.
"That's your baby," Dr. Patel confirms, smiling. "Measuring exactly on schedule. Crown-rump length looks good. Yolk sac is appropriate size."
She takes measurements, clicking and typing, while that heartbeat continues its steady rhythm. Proof that life is happening despite everything trying to destroy it.
"Everything looks healthy so far," Dr. Patel says finally, turning the screen toward us. "See here? That's the gestational sac, and inside is your baby—about the size of a raspberry right now."
A raspberry. Our child is the size of a raspberry with a heartbeat that sounds like hope.
"Now," Dr. Patel says, cleaning the gel off my stomach. "Let's talk about genetic concerns."
My stomach clenches. Here it comes—the confirmation of every fear I've been carrying.
"Mia's leukemia had a genetic component," she continues. "Specifically, mutations that increased her susceptibility. The question is whether this baby will inherit those same markers."
"What are the odds?" Zayden asks.
"Statistically low." Dr. Patel pulls up something on her tablet. "Sibling recurrence risk for ALL with Mia's specific genetic profile is approximately 2-4%. That's higher than the general population risk of 0.05%, but still quite low overall."
Two to four percent. Not zero, but not guaranteed catastrophe either.
"So there's a 96-98% chance this baby won't develop leukemia?" I need her to confirm, need to hear it clearly.
"Based on current data, yes. But I want to be thorough."
She types something.
"I'm recommending comprehensive genetic panels. Cell-free DNA testing now, which is non-invasive—just a blood draw from you. That screens for chromosomal abnormalities and can look at some genetic markers."
"And if that shows something concerning?"
"Then we do more targeted testing. Possibly amniocentesis at sixteen weeks for definitive diagnosis." Her voice is calm, factual. "But let's not borrow trouble. Most of these tests come back completely normal."
"What about after the baby's born?" Zayden asks. "If there are markers but no active disease?"
"We monitor closely. Bloodwork at regular intervals, watch for any early indicators. The advantage you have is knowledge—we know what to look for, we can catch anything developing at the earliest possible stage."
She looks between us. "I know this is scary. But you're not walking into this blind like you did with Mia."
She's right. With Mia, the diagnosis came out of nowhere—a routine checkup that turned into emergency oncology referrals. This time, we have information. Tools. Options.
"When can we do the genetic panel?" I ask.
"Today, if you want. I'll send orders to the lab downstairs." She prints something, hands it to me. "They can draw blood before you leave."
After she exits, I sit on the exam table holding ultrasound photos of our raspberry-sized baby, trying to process everything.
"96-98% chance of being fine," Zayden says, looking at the same photos. "Those are good odds."
"But not guaranteed."
"Nothing's guaranteed." He sets down the photos, cups my face. "We could spend the next eight months catastrophizing about that 2-4%, or we can celebrate the 96-98%. Either way, we're having this baby. Either way, we'll love them and protect them and handle whatever comes."
He's right. I hate that he's right, but he is.
"Okay," I say. "Let's do the blood draw and go home."
We get dressed, collect our ultrasound photos, and head downstairs to the lab. The phlebotomist is efficient—three vials of blood drawn in under five minutes.
"Results in seven to ten days," she says, labeling the tubes.
We're walking toward the exit when Zayden stops abruptly.
"What?" I ask.
"Don't look obvious, but there's a photographer outside. Guy with a long lens, pointed at the main entrance."
My stomach drops. "How did they find us here?"
"Followed us, maybe. Or Aiden tipped them off." His jaw tightens. "Either way, we're not giving them the shot."
He guides me toward a side corridor, following signs for alternate exits. We wind through administrative hallways, past offices and supply rooms, until we find a side door leading to the parking garage.
"Stay close," Zayden says, pulling out his phone. "I'm calling David. Having him check if anyone followed us, if there are more photographers waiting."
We make it to the car without incident, but my hands are shaking as I buckle my seatbelt.
"They're everywhere," I say. "Even here. At my doctor's appointment."
"I know." He starts the engine, checks all mirrors before backing out. "We'll file harassment complaints. Get restraining orders against press intrusion. Whatever it takes."
As we drive home, I clutch the ultrasound photos. That tiny flutter of heartbeat, that raspberry-sized miracle growing despite chaos.
The world wants to invade every private moment. Aiden wants to weaponize our vulnerability. Vivienne wants to destroy our reputation.
But inside me, a heartbeat pulses steady and strong.
And that's what matters.