After My Miscarriage, He Took in His Pregnant Lover

I stared at the pregnancy test in my trembling hands, watching as the second pink line darkened against the white background. My heart hammered against my ribs as I blinked, certain I was seeing things.

"Again," I whispered to myself, reaching for the second test in the box Vincent had teasingly called "obsessive" when I'd brought it home last week.

Seven years of marriage. Seven years of trying, of temperature tracking, of scheduled intimacy that sometimes felt more like a clinical procedure than lovemaking. And now, on our anniversary, the universe had finally answered.

The second test confirmed what the first had shown. Two pink lines. Unmistakable.

"I'm pregnant," I said aloud, my voice breaking in the empty bathroom of our Seattle home.

I pressed my hand against my still-flat stomach, imagining the tiny life growing inside me. After years of disappointment, the reality felt surreal. I needed confirmation—medical confirmation.

Two hours later, I sat in my clinic's ultrasound room, watching Dr. Patel's face as she moved the wand across my abdomen.

"Dr. Parker," she said, her professional demeanor cracking into a smile, "you're definitely pregnant."

I exhaled shakily. "And everything looks normal?"

"Better than normal," she replied, turning the screen toward me. "See these two distinct sacs? You're carrying twins."

The world tilted beneath me. Twins. Vincent and I were having twins.

I left the clinic with a small bag containing the ultrasound images and a vintage watch box tucked under my arm—a 1960s Omega Vincent had been eyeing for months. Tonight would be perfect. The watch was his anniversary gift, but the twins were my surprise—our surprise.

"Dr. Parker?" My nurse Rebecca appeared at my office door, her expression concerned. "Everything okay? You look..."

"Rebecca," I said, unable to contain my smile, "I'm pregnant. With twins."

Her eyes widened. "Oh my God! Dr. Morgan will be over the moon!"

"I hope so," I said, glancing at my watch—our anniversary dinner reservation was in three hours. "I just need to get home and change."

My phone buzzed with a text from Vincent: *Stuck in deposition. Might be late. Start without me.*

A flicker of disappointment crossed my face. The distance between us had grown over the past few months—Vincent working late, me covering extra shifts at the hospital. But tonight would change everything. The news of our twins would bridge whatever invisible gap had formed between us.

I was halfway home when my pager went off—Seattle General Hospital requesting immediate assistance with a high-risk patient.

"Dr. Parker speaking," I answered, already calculating how quickly I could handle this and still make our dinner.

"Dr. Parker, we have a maternal hemorrhage in the VIP suite. Dr. Hartwell requested you specifically."

My stomach tightened. David Hartwell didn't call unless it was serious.

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," I said, already changing direction in my car.

I tried calling Vincent, but it went straight to voicemail. I sent another text: *Emergency at SGH. Will be late. Save me some dinner?*

His