Winning the Heir Who Bullied Me Chapter 178

**NATHAN’S POV**

“Nathan Edward Ashford, if you tell me to *breathe* one more time, I will reach inside me, pull out the placenta, and strangle you with it.”

I exhale. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry, just bre—”

April shoots me a death glare so sharp it could cut glass, and I clamp my mouth shut instantly. Lesson learned. My job is to stand here, hold her hand, and not become a murder statistic.

The delivery room is a whirlwind—machines beeping steadily, the scent of antiseptic sharp in the air, nurses moving with brisk precision.

Through the wide windows, Paris glows in the late afternoon light, all soft gold and shadow. I don’t know if it’s just me, but it feels…still, like the city itself is holding its breath with us.

Doctor Henri, our OB-GYN—a doctor with kind eyes and a faint trace of gray at his temples—glances up from his position. “*Allez,* Madame Ashford… *encore un peu*… just a little more, *oui*?” His French accent somehow makes the instruction sound gentler, but April doesn’t seem to care—she’s gripping my hand like she intends to crush every bone in it.

Her face is flushed, damp tendrils of hair sticking to her temples, jaw tight with effort.

I murmur useless encouragements—steering clear of anything that has to do with respiratory function—and when she pushes again, Doctor Henri's voice sharpens, urgent and warm. “*C’est bien, c’est parfait*—one more, Madame—yes, *voilà, voilà*—”

And then I hear it—a high, raw, perfect cry. My knees nearly give out with relief.

The world narrows to the tiny, wriggling bundle the nurse lifts into view—our daughter.

She’s pink and hysterical and so fucking *beautiful.*

The nurse places her on April’s chest, and my wife’s face changes in an instant—from strain to elation, exhaustion to awe.

“Hi, baby,” she whispers, tears spilling freely down her cheeks. She cups the back of our daughter’s head reverently, like she’s made of spun glass. “Welcome to the world.”

I don’t even realize I’m crying until my vision blurs. I lean down, press my forehead to April’s, and I swear my heart has never been so full.

***

June bursts in first, all long limbs and teenage energy, wearing a grin that could rival the Eiffel Tower’s lights.

She hovers by April’s bedside, eyes wide, before carefully leaning in to kiss her sister’s cheek.

“She’s so tiny,” June breathes, peeking at the swaddle. “What’s her name?”

April glances at me, smiling. “Camille Isabelle Ashford.”

June freezes. Her lips part, and her voice comes out small. “*Isabelle?*”

April’s expression softens. “Yeah. After Mom.”

June blinks quickly, but it doesn’t stop her eyes from shining. She leans down, brushing a fingertip along Camille’s little mittened hand. “She would have loved that.”

“Yeah,” April says softly, her eyes misting. “She would.”

Peter follows, his arm around Eliza, who’s balancing their one-year-old son, Asher, on her hip. The toddler squeals at the sight of April, then immediately tries to grab the baby’s blanket.

Peter grins. “Camille Isabelle, huh? That’s beautiful. But I’ve gotta admit, I was betting you’d go with November. Keep the month theme going—you know, April, June, November?”

June rolls her eyes. “Hardy har har.”

“I think it’s inspired,” Peter insists. “You could’ve called her ‘Novie’ for short.”

April shakes her head. “I shudder to think what you would have named your son if Eliza didn’t step in.”

My sister-in-law shudders. “Just be grateful you’re not related to someone named *Rocket*.”

“Hey! He’s the most valuable member of the Guardians of the Galaxy.”

“It’s a *raccoon*.”

Peter gasps like she just insulted his—well, our—entire lineage. “You take that back.”

I’m about to kick both of them out when Lara sweeps in with her husband, Rhys, in tow, both of them flushed from the November chill.

Lara’s carrying a pastry box that smells faintly of cinnamon and sugar.

“I brought reinforcements,” she announces, setting it down on the side table. “Because I figured hospital food doesn’t exactly scream *festive holiday meal.*”

Rhys sets down two paper coffee cups next to it. “And caffeine. For survival purposes.”

April tilts her head at him. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“Yeah, he definitely is,” Lara says, leaning over to kiss April’s forehead, “because he got us through Paris traffic without me committing vehicular homicide. I’m just the brains.”

“Brains and beauty,” Rhys says automatically, and Lara swats at him with mock annoyance.

This was the first year we didn’t travel back to America for Thanksgiving because of April’s nearing due date, so we were supposed to be hosting Thanksgiving dinner tonight at our apartment.

Instead, the feast is replaced by takeout coffee cups, hospital room laughter, and everyone taking turns to meet the newest Ashford.

Honestly, I can’t think of a better trade.

Peter is on the couch now, cooing exaggeratedly at Camille while Eliza warns him not to hog her.

June has somehow charmed the nurse into bringing extra blankets, claiming Camille “deserves luxury” on her first day.

Lara’s got her phone out, and Julian’s voice rings through the room, bemoaning the fact that his work trip to Italy coincided with Camille’s birth.

For a moment, the world feels impossibly perfect—just family, friends, warmth. April looks radiant, our daughter sleeping soundly against her, and I feel like I’ve been dipped into a vat of pure, undiluted joy, and it’s saturating my bones.

Then Peter catches my eye. His smile doesn’t falter, but there’s a flicker—something in his expression that doesn’t match the rest of the room. He tilts his head slightly toward the door.

I step out into the hallway with him, my pulse already picking up.

“There’s someone waiting for you outside,” he says quietly.

My brows dip. “Who?”

He nods down the hallway. “See for yourself.”

I’m reluctant to leave my wife and new baby behind, but curiosity carries me down the hall. The cold air hits me as the hospital sliding doors part, but I shiver from the chill inside me when my eyes land on her.

Emotion lodges firmly in my throat, and my voice doesn't sound like mine when I croak out, “Mom.”