The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 521

Chapter 256-1

The alarm on my phone goes off at seven–thirty, its sharp, electronic chime cutting through

the quiet gloom of the studio.

I don’t roll over to press my face into a warm, broad chest. There’s no heavy, tattooed arm draped over my waist, holding me to the mattress, and there’s no low, gravelly voice

grumbling in my ear that it’s too early for either of us to be awake.

There’s only the cool morning air of the studio, the steady hum of the mini–fridge, and Xena, who immediately lifts her head from the foot of the bed, her dark eyes watching me as I sit

1. up.

Seventeen weeks.

I rest my palm over my lower stomach, feeling the firm, distinct mound beneath my shirt. Today’s the seventeen–week prenatal checkup. It’s the appointment where we’re supposed to check the growth, measure the heartbeat, and go over the plan for the mid–pregnancy

anatomy scan.

I swing my legs over the side of the fold–out bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress for a long moment while my head clears.

In the penthouse, mornings before clinic days were an entire production.

Locke would already be up by six, moving around the kitchen in his dark sweatpants, his broad shoulders bare, the tattoos across his back flexing as he scrambled eggs and seared

steak slices.

He’d insist on feeding me a ridiculous amount of protein before every appointment, hovering over me at the island while I ate, growling whenever I tried to skip a bite.

And then there was the physical contact. He couldn’t let me leave the apartment without putting his hands on me.

He’d pull me against his hips while I was still trying to tie my shoes, pressing his large, warm palm flat against my belly, holding it there.

Now the studio is dead quiet.

I make myself a slice of dry toast, standing by the laminate counter while the kettle boils. I

Chapter 256 1

pour a mug of chamomile tea, but after two sips, my stomach turns, and I pour the rest down

the drain.

I dress slowly in a black knit turtleneck and dark leggings, layering a thick cardigan over top to cut through the February chill settling into the room.

I fill Xena’s water bowl to the brim, place a fresh peanut–butter–filled chew toy on her bed, and

scratch her between her ears.

“I’ll be back in an hour, girl,” I say softly. “You take care of the place for me.”

She gives a quiet whine, resting her chin on her paws as I slip my coat on, grab my purse, and step out into the hallway. I double–check the deadbolt, feeling the cold steel click into place, before turning toward the narrow stairwell.

The cab ride to the health clinic takes fifteen minutes. I sit in the back seat, staring out the window at the morning traffic crawling down the avenue. My phone sits heavy in my coat pocket. Jade texted me at seven to ask if I needed a ride, but I typed out a quick, polite refusal before she could insist.

When the cab pulls up to the medical building, I pay the driver, step out into the freezing air, and walk through the automatic sliding glass doors into the warm, carpeted lobby.

The waiting room is bright, decorated in muted blues and yellows and warm oak trim, smelling faintly of citrus polish and hand sanitizer. It’s designed to be soothing, but stepping inside feels like walking into a theater where everyone else is rehearsing a play I’ve been

kicked out of.

Nearly every vinyl armchair in the room is taken by couples.

To my left, a man in a high–vis jacket is leaning over his wife, whispering something into her ear that makes her giggle while he rests a hand over her swollen bump. Across the room, an expectant father is nervously handing a paper cup of water to his heavily–pregnant partner while he rubs her lower back.

I walk up to the reception desk, check in with the nurse, and sit down in an isolated armchair in the corner near the magazine rack.

I keep my coat wrapped tight around my torso, keeping my hands tucked deep into my pockets, my eyes fixed firmly on the beige carpet beneath my boots.

Chapter 256 2

Chapter 256-2

The sting of memories hits me so hard I have to swallow down a surge of nausea

The last time I sat in this exact waiting room – at the twelve–week mark – Locke had practically towered over the low plastic chairs.

He’d refused to sit down at first, pacing the perimeter of the room like a caged predator, his leather cut showing off his club patches, his storm gray eyes sweeping over every man who walked through the front door with an intimidating, lethal guard.

When he finally did sit beside me, his thigh had been pressed tightly against mine, his massive frame taking up his chair and half of mine.

“Zara Callahan?”

I force myself to stand up, smoothing down the front of my cardigan, and walk down the quiet, carpeted hallway.

The exam room is warm, lit by soft overhead panels rather than harsh fluorescent tubes. The ultrasound machine sits in the corner, its dark screen reflecting the pastel artwork hanging

on the wall.

“Go ahead and hop up on the table, Zara,” the nurse says, setting my chart on the counter take your blood pressure first, and then Dr. Innis will be right in.”

I climb onto the high paper–lined exam table, the crinkle of the sanitary paper loud in the room. The nurse wraps the velcro cuff around my arm, pumping it up while I focus on taking slow, even breaths.

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