The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 329

Chapter 161-1

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The late-morning light spills across the king-sized mattress, cutting through the heavy curtains.

I wake up slowly, my mind drifting out of the deepest, most unbroken sleep I’ve had in months. I feel warm and cocooned in the bedsheets.

Beside me, the bed dips heavily under a massive, solid weight.

Locke is still fast asleep.

It’s a rare sight.

Usually, Locke is awake before dawn, his mind already turned toward logistics and the tactical edge. But two weeks away on that dark run, combined with the emotional shock of yesterday’s hospital visit, have completely claimed him.

He’s lying on his side facing me, one massive, tattooed arm thrown loosely and protectively over my waist, holding me gently against him.

I lie still for a long moment, watching the subtle rise and fall of his broad chest, listening to the quiet murmur of the ocean far below. My hand moves instinctively, my fingers drifting down to rest flat against my lower stomach beneath the soft cotton of my oversized t-shirt.

Six weeks.

The reality hits me in a quiet, breathtaking wave. There is a tiny, six-week-old miracle tucked inside me, thriving in the quiet dark.

Yesterday feels like a fever dream: the sterile smell of Dr. Mercer’s consultation room, the buzzing hum of the lights, the sheer disbelief that my scorched, post-chemo body could foster new life. Yet, as the sweet warmth of that thought blooms in my chest, a cold, familiar shadow lingers right at the edge of my mind:

The final blood work.

Yesterday’s preliminary panels confirmed the pregnancy, but Dr. Mercer said the comprehensive vicology panel – the definitive clearance testing for my remission markers – would be back today.

And until those lab results land in my inbox, I’m holding my breath.

I want to celebrate carrying Locke’s baby. I want to jump up, open the balcony doors, and scream it to the world. But the dark ghost of my illness still haunts the corner of the room, whispering terrifying questions:

What if the cancer isn’t fully gone? What if my body isn’t strong enough to nourish another heart?

I trace a slow circle over my stomach, letting out a soft, shuddering breath. I can’t let the shadow take over today. Not when Locke is lying next to me, safe and whole.

I shift slightly, turning my head to study every detail of him. Even in sleep, there’s an immovable strength to him, a grounding weight that has kept me tethered through the worst time of my life.

For two weeks, while he was out on the road, I slept in an empty bed, listening to every creak of the floorboards, terrified that Knox’s men would find a seam in our armor. But having Locke’s heavy arm over

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The air feels safer. The apartment feels whole.

Locke stirs beside me a low, gravelly rumble escaping his chest as his grip on my waist tightens gently. He pulls me an inch closer, his massive body radiating a furnace-like warmth that instantly chases away the morning chill. His long lashes flutter, and his eyes blink open, heavy with sleep.

“Morning, baby,” he rasps, his voice rough and warm from hours of deep rest.

“Morning,” I say. “You slept late. It’s almost eleven.”

A devastating, breathtaking smile touches the corner of his mouth. “My body gave up. Haven’t slept like that in years.” He shifts, leaning in to press a heavy, lingering kiss against my temple. “How are you doing, baby? How’s your body feeling today?”

“I feel… good,” I say, resting my hand flat against his broad, bare chest. “Just hungry. And I really, really

need coffee.”

Locke’s gray eyes light up with affectionate warmth, a teasing glint touching his sharp gaze. “One cup, right? Doctor Mercer said one small low-acid coffee per day is perfectly safe. Let me make it for you.”

“Locke, i can get up and walk to the kitchen…

“I know you can,” he murmurs, catching my wrist and bringing my hand to his mouth. “But let me spoil you a little bit this morning. Stay warm under the covers.”

I smile as I watch him throw back the heavy comforter. He swings his muscular legs over the edge of the mattress, completely unbothered by his bare torso and rumpled boxers. He stretches, his broad shoulders flexing in the soft light, before padding quietly out of the master bedroom toward the kitchen.

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