She Was Never Just the Billionaire’s Wife (Natasha and Chase) novel Chapter 77

(Natasha)

By the time Lily comes home, the nursery looks less like a nursery and more like a satellite office for St. Jude’s.

There are printed instruction sheets above the changing table.

A thermometer on the dresser.

A neat stack of follow-up appointment cards clipped together with one of Chase’s silver binder clips.

Because apparently even our child’s medical crisis has to be organized like a merger.

The first time I see the chart he made, I just stare at it.

Temperature. Feeding times. Wet diapers. Medication notes. Questions for Patel. Space for symptoms. Space for changes in her mood.

It is precise, thorough, and faintly insane.

It is also exactly what I would have made if I’d been able to tear myself away from Lily’s side.

Chase is standing by the crib, looking down at Lily with the concentration of a man trying to hold the whole world steady by force of will.

“You made a spreadsheet,” I say.

He glances over. “A table.”

“That’s a spreadsheet in a collared shirt.”

“It’s useful.”

“It is,” I admit, which feels unfairly intimate.

Because that’s the problem now. Everything is intimate.

There’s no room left for our usual posturing when Lily’s medication has to be given at six, and then again at midnight.

When Dr. Patel’s office wants a call the second her temperature goes above a very specific number.

There is no space for hostility when we’re standing shoulder to shoulder in the nursery at two in the morning, both listening to make sure she’s breathing the way she should.

We become efficient in a way that would be satisfying if it weren’t so unnerving.

Chase warms bottles while I sterilize the syringes for the tiny doses of medication she needs.

He learns how to hold her still for the scan tech without making her panic more than necessary.

I learn the exact expression on his face when he’s terrified and trying to be strong.

Right now, he’s leaning over the chart as he says, “Patel wants another urine sample if there’s any change in color.”

“Noted.”

“And if she spikes even a low-grade fever-”

“We go in immediately.”

His gaze lifts to mine. “I know you know.”

“Then stop repeating it like I’m a temp who misplaced the filing.”

He almost smiles.

Lily makes a soft, unhappy noise in her crib and we both turn at once.

That would be absurd in any other context, the synchronized movement. Here, it just feels inevitable.

I lift her first because I’m closer.

She’s warm and fragile and furious with the universe.

Chase reaches out to fix her blanket and his fingers brush mine.

The contact is brief.

It still lands like a lightning strike.

We spend the next three days in a state of managed exhaustion.

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