Chapter 957

Lucian turned to leave, but Rosalind's fingers caught the edge of his sleeve. "Mr. Graves."

He paused, glancing back with those piercing gray eyes. "Yes?"

Her throat tightened. "Tomorrow... I have my prenatal appointment. Would you... like to come?" She rushed to add, "If you're busy, I completely understand. I can manage alone—"

"I'll be there." His deep voice cut through her hesitation like a knife through butter.

Rosalind nodded, releasing his sleeve. "Thank you."

"Rest well. I'll pick you up at nine." With that, he was gone.

She moved to the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching as his sleek black Bentley idled below. Isabella Delacroix stood waiting by the passenger door, her designer dress shimmering under the morning sun.

When Lucian emerged, Isabella's face lit up. "Right on time, Mr. Graves." Her laughter carried faintly through the glass as she held the door open for him.

The car pulled away, leaving Rosalind alone with the flutter in her womb. Three months along now, her abdomen had begun showing the softest swell beneath her silk blouse.

She cradled the gentle curve, whispering, "Papa had to leave, little one. But we'll see him tomorrow at your checkup, won't we?"

Morning light streamed through the hospital windows as Lucian guided Rosalind into the examination room. The ultrasound wand glided over her stomach, revealing their baby's strong heartbeat.

"Any fetal movement yet?" Dr. Sinclair adjusted his glasses.

Rosalind shook her head. "Not that I've noticed."

Lucian's jaw tensed. "Is that concerning?"

"Not at all." The doctor chuckled. "At this stage, baby's just starting to explore movement. Try placing your hand here," he guided Lucian's palm to Rosalind's bump, "and talk to them. A father's voice is powerful stimulation."

Rosalind watched emotions flicker across Lucian's usually impassive face—wonder, concern, an almost boyish excitement. This ruthless CEO, who commanded boardrooms with an iron will, now hung on every word about fetal development.

"Understood." Lucian bent slightly, his lips nearly brushing the fabric of her blouse. "Can you hear me, little one? It's your father."

Rosalind couldn't suppress a giggle.

His head snapped up. "Something amusing?"

"I just—" Her words dissolved into a gasp as something fluttered beneath his hand like a trapped butterfly.

Lucian's eyes widened. "Was that—?"

Again, stronger this time—a distinct kick against his palm.

"The baby moved!" Rosalind clutched his forearm as another jab followed, more forceful.

Lucian steadied her instantly. "Does that hurt?"

Dr. Sinclair beamed. "Mr. Graves, it seems you're not just an attentive father-to-be, but quite protective of the mother as well."

Heat flooded Rosalind's cheeks. "It doesn't hurt," she murmured, though her fingers lingered where Lucian's hand had been moments before, as if to preserve the warmth of his touch.