His Belated Love for the Abandoned Ex-Wife Chapter 269: Heartbeat

"The four-month-old fetus is developing beautifully. Everything looks perfectly healthy," the doctor said with a warm smile. "You can already make out the little hands and feet."

Julian swallowed, his throat tight. He lifted a hand as if to touch the ultrasound screen, then hesitated and let it fall.

Turning toward Iris, his eyes held a fragile, hopeful caution. "Would you...like to hear the heartbeat?"

Iris gave a small nod.

The doctor picked up the fetal Doppler.

When the strong, rhythmic thumping filled the room, she saw Julian's eyes redden once more.

For a second, her resolve nearly softened.

*****

The next morning, Iris woke to an unusually quiet house.

She came downstairs to find Freya preparing breakfast in the sunlit kitchen.

"Mr. Everhart left early this morning," Freya offered without being asked. "He mentioned he had important business and wouldn't be back until tonight."

Iris nodded, though she couldn't quite shake a faint sense of disappointment.

She stepped outside into the garden and settled on a bench beneath a flowering dogwood tree.

A soft breeze stirred, sending pale pink petals drifting to the ground like delicate spring snow.

Morning light filtered through the branches, casting shifting patterns across her simple cotton dress.

The early May air carried the first hints of summer warmth, but it did little to lift the quiet weight in her chest.

She sat in the shaded pavilion, letting the calm of the garden settle around her.

After a while, Freya brought over a glass of warm honey-lemon water and placed it gently on the side table beside her. "Ms. Whitlow, Mr. Everhart asked me to make this for you. He thought it might help—since you haven't had much appetite lately."

Iris' fingers tightened slightly in her lap. She didn't reach for the glass.

It irritated her, being cared for in such a meticulously managed way—and yet she couldn't deny his attentiveness.

"Did he say where he was going?" Iris asked finally, her voice so soft it nearly dissolved into the breeze.

Freya shook her head. "Only that it was important, and that you shouldn't worry." She paused, then added gently, "But he didn't look well when he left. I don't think he's been sleeping much lately. He seemed...tired."

Iris looked down. A heaviness settled in her chest. After a moment, she lifted the glass and took a slow sip.

The balanced sweetness and tartness spread across her tongue, bringing an unexpected comfort.

"Ms. Whitlow," Freya began tentatively, "in the week I've been here, I've seen how much Mr. Everhart cares. He's been learning recipes, reading all kinds of parenting books... He tells me every little detail about how to look after you."

Freya's tone softened with empathy. "He says you don't care for material things, but still, he keeps bringing them home. Just yesterday I organized dozens of limited-edition handbags into your closet. It's full of this season's designer pieces—dresses, jewelry... Have you even looked at any of it?"

Something tugged quietly inside Iris' heart.

She thought of the stack of new prenatal books in the study. The way Julian's eyes had glistened as he stared at the ultrasound. How he would start to reach for her, then stop himself each time.

A faint, bittersweet smile touched her lips. "I'm stuck here, Freya. Who would I be wearing all those things for?"

"You could wear them for yourself," Freya said softly. "Or for him."

Iris didn't reply. Her gaze drifted toward the wrought-iron gates at the far end of the garden, locked and outlined by the long afternoon shadows. They lay across the lawn like dark bars, separating her from everything beyond.

Later, back in her bedroom, she noticed a small, elegant box on the nightstand that she'd missed that morning.

Inside lay a pair of tiny, impeccably crafted baby shoes—soft leather, delicately stitched, with a subtle embroidered motif of dogwood blossoms on each cuff.

Just like the ones blooming outside.

Beneath them rested a card in Julian's familiar handwriting.

"One day, I hope we can watch our child take their first steps in these, right under the dogwood tree—together."

Iris ran her fingertip lightly over the words. A slow ache bloomed beneath her ribs, sweet and sorrowful all at once.

*****

Late that night, Iris stood by her bedroom window, gazing out at the scattered stars. A quiet loneliness lingered in the air, and against her will, she found herself missing him.

Then came the low sound of an engine approaching.

Julian was home.

She heard the distant murmur of his voice downstairs with Freya, then footsteps ascending the stairs.

They paused outside her door. A few seconds passed before a gentle knock came.

"Iris?" His voice was soft through the door, tender in that way only his could be. "Can I come in?"

Iris didn't answer aloud. She crossed the room and turned the handle.

Julian stood there in a crisp white shirt and dark trousers, his suit jacket draped over one arm. In his other hand, he held a sleek boutique bag. He looked tired, like he'd come straight from some formal engagement.

His eyes warmed when he saw her. He lifted the bag slightly. "I brought those pastries you love."

"I'm not hungry." Iris glanced at the bag but didn't take it. Her expression remained calm. "Julian, we need to talk."

The gentle light in his eyes dimmed. He pressed his lips together and slowly lowered his hand. "Alright. What is it?"

Iris kept her tone measured, gentle but firm. "You tore up my passport. You have my ID and my phone. I need you to stop controlling my movements. Please—let me go out. Let me..."