Chapter 9 - The Birth in the Storm
Two months later.
A ferocious winter blizzard battered the coast, blanketing the estate in nine inches of heavy, blinding snow.
Inside the master suite, the fireplace roared, casting a warm orange glow across the mahogany furniture.
I woke up at three in the morning with a sharp, blinding wave of pain radiating through my lower back. I gasped, clutching the silk sheets as a heavy contraction seized my body.
Beside me, Cassian woke up instantly, his dark eyes snapping open with immediate, high-alert focus.
“Clara?” he asked, sitting up and wrapping his arms around my shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
“The baby,” I gasped, my forehead covered in a sheen of cold sweat. “Cassian... it’s time.”
Cassian leapt out of bed, grabbing his phone to call the private medical team stationed at the estate’s guest house. But when he held the phone to his ear, he swore under his breath.
“The storm knocked out the local cellular towers,” he muttered, rushing over to the window.
Outside, thick white snow was drifting across the driveway, blocking the roads completely. The private medical ambulance was trapped at the bottom of the hill two miles away.
Another contraction hit me, harder than the first. I screamed out, collapsing onto the side of the bed.
Cassian was at my side in a fraction of a second. The fear on his face was real, but behind it sat an absolute, unshakeable determination.
“Mrs. Gable!” Cassian roared into the hallway. “Bring boiled water, clean towels, and the emergency medical delivery kit from the study!”
He knelt on the floor in front of me, taking my trembling hands into his warm, strong palms.
“Look at me, Clara,” Cassian commanded gently, his dark eyes locking onto mine with absolute intensity. “Look at me. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
For the next four hours, as the storm howled outside the glass windows, Cassian Rowe—the ruthless billionaire who ruled a global shipping empire— sat on the floor in a ruined cashmere sweater, holding my legs, wiping my forehead with cool towels, and guiding me through every agonizing breath.
He didn't flinch. He didn't look away. He held me with a strength that felt like an anchor in a raging sea.
At 7:12 AM, as the first golden rays of the morning sun broke through the snow clouds, a sharp, loud, healthy cry echoed through the master bedroom.
Cassian caught our son in a warm sterile towel, his hands trembling as he lifted the tiny, crying baby toward my chest.
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Tears spilled freely down Cassian’s face, washing away every last trace of the cold, unfeeling man the world believed him to be.
“A boy, Clara,” Cassian sobbed softly, resting his forehead against mine as our son nestled against my bare skin. “We have a healthy baby boy.”
