Unmatched Wife: Not His To Claim Anymore novel Chapter 71

Chapter 71

BIANCA

I read it three times, certain I’d misunderstood.

97.3%.

Distinction.

I’d passed. Not just passed–excelled.

The tears came then, hot and fast and completely overwhelming. I set my laptop aside and buried my face in my hands, sobbing with a mixture of relief and joy and vindication so intense it felt like it might crack me open.

For four years, Matthew had made me question my competence. Had suggested I was only hired at the hospital because they needed bodies, not because I was actually skilled. Had implied my medical knowledge was adequate at best, certainly nothing

special.

And I’d believed him. Had internalized his dismissal as truth, had stopped trusting my own expertise.

But here was proof–objective, undeniable proof–that I was good at what I did. That my knowledge was comprehensive, my skills were advanced, my abilities were worthy of distinction.

This was mine. This accomplishment, this validation, belonged to no one but me.

I was still crying when I heard the front door open, heard Louis’s excited chatter and Rivera’s deeper voice responding.

“Mummy’s home!” Louis shouted, his footsteps thundering toward the living room. “Mummy, we got you–why are you crying? Did you fail? It’s okay if you failed, we still love you-”

“She didn’t fail, buddy,” Rivera said quietly, and I looked up to see him standing in the doorway, reading my expression with the accuracy that came from weeks of learning my tells. “She passed. Those are happy tears.”

“I passed with distinction,” I managed through my sobs. “97.3%.”

“YESSSSS!” Louis launched himself at me, wrapping his small arms around my neck. “I told Dad you’d pass! I told him you’re the smartest person ever!”

Rivera was smiling, that soft expression that transformed his usually serious face into something warm and open.” Congratulations, Dr. Morrison. Though I’m not surprised. You’re brilliant.”

The simple statement, delivered with such certainty, made me cry harder.

“Come on,” Rivera said gently. “Louis and I have a surprise for you. We were going to wait until you got home to set it up, but since you’re home early…”

He disappeared into the hallway, and I heard rustling, Louis’s excited whispers, more movement.

Then Rivera returned carrying what appeared to be a large banner, with Louis trailing behind him holding another.

They hung them across the living room with practiced efficiency, and I found myself staring at hand–painted congratulations signs covered in glitter and drawings and Louis’s enthusiastic spelling.

“CONGRADULATIONS DR. BIANCA!” one proclaimed in rainbow letters.

“BEST DOCTER IN THE HOLE WORLD!” declared another.

“YOU DID IT MUMMY WER SO PROWD!” shouted a third.

Chapter 71

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The misspellings were charming. The glitter was excessive. The whole thing was absolutely perfect.

“Louis made them himself,” Rivera explained, though that was obvious from the five–year–old artistic style. “We’ve been working on them all week. He was very specific about the glitter requirements.”

“Glitter makes everything more special,” Louis said seriously. “That’s a scientific fact.”

I pulled him into another hug, breathing in his little–boy scent of playground dirt and sunshine. “They’re beautiful, sweetheart. The best congratulations banners I’ve ever seen.”

“Wait, there’s more!” He wriggled free and ran to the kitchen. “We made a cake! Well, Dad made most of it, but I helped with the decorating and only ate a little bit of the frosting!”

The cake that emerged was indeed lopsided, its frosting applied with more enthusiasm than skill. Someone–Louis, undoubtedly–had written “DR. BIANCA” across the top in wobbly chocolate letters.

It was the most beautiful cake I’d ever seen.

“And presents!” Louis announced. “We got you presents! Can she open them now, Dad?”

“Let her breathe first, buddy,” Rivera said with amusement. “She’s had a long day.”

“No, I want to open them now,” I said, my voice still thick with emotion. “This is–this is the best celebration I could have asked for.”

Louis presented me with a gift wrapped in newspaper comics and held together with what appeared to be an entire roll of tape. Inside was a drawing he’d made–me in a doctor’s coat with an enormous stethoscope, standing next to Louis and Rivera, all three of us smiling under a rainbow.

“So you can remember today forever,” he explained. “And remember how happy we are that you’re our mummy and also a really good doctor.”

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