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Chapter 70 – Arya's POV
"My Body Is Not My Own"
If I wasn't throwing up, I was falling asleep in the most ridiculous places.
Yesterday, I woke up with a paintbrush in my hand and my head resting on a half-finished canvas at the gallery. The day before that, I dozed off during a call with a client and drooled on my sketchbook. I blamed it on "creative exhaustion," but even I knew that was a lie.
Pregnancy had hijacked my body.
Every inch of me ached. My back, especially. I felt like I was carrying a small boulder in my lower spine instead of a cluster of cells. And don't even get me started on my breasts — sore, swollen, and heavier than anything I'd signed up for. Even hugging Damon had become an ordeal.
But what really made me question if I was losing my mind?
The dreams.
Every night, I had the most vivid, borderline bizarre dreams. Last night, I dreamt I gave birth to a cat wearing Damon's hoodie. The night before that, I was at a fashion show, but all the models were my old teachers and they were eating pickles on the runway.
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry when I woke up.
So, I did both.
Because crying?
Crying was now my personality.
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The worst part?
Smells.
I used to love the scent of fresh paint, coffee brewing, cinnamon rolls in the oven…
Now? Everything made me gag.
Damon had to stop wearing his cologne because it made me dizzy. Liam couldn't bring peanut butter sandwiches into the same room as me. And I banned air fresheners like they were toxic waste.
Even my own shampoo betrayed me.
This morning, I opened a new bottle and immediately puked in the shower.
By the time I wrapped myself in a towel and stumbled out, Damon was already standing by the door with crackers and ginger tea, looking like a tired but determined nurse.
"I smell like death," I groaned, collapsing onto the bed.
"You smell like lavender," he said, kissing my forehead and lying beside me. "But if you hate it, I'll throw it away."
I sighed, melting into him despite the dull ache in my back and the tension in my shoulders.
"You don't have to keep saving me every morning."
"I'm not saving you," he said, rubbing small circles on my lower back. "I'm just loving you through it."
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Later that day, I tried to be productive at the gallery. I really did.
But after thirty minutes of standing, I dropped my phone. Then my pencil. Then my patience.
My fingers were swollen. My ankles looked like they belonged to a cartoon elephant. And for some reason, I couldn't walk a straight line without bumping into something.
"I swear the floor moved," I muttered after tripping over nothing and landing on the couch with a dramatic grunt.
Serena, bless her heart, handed me a glass of cold water and said, "Maybe you should rest. Like… rest rest."
"I rested yesterday."
She gave me a look. "You cried because your chair squeaked and then slept for three hours in the supply closet."
"…Right. That."
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At home, I tried to hide my frustration.
Liam was watching cartoons, and I didn't want him to see how defeated I felt. But as I bent to pick up his backpack and nearly toppled forward, I let out a groan.
"Mommy?" he asked.
"I'm fine," I gritted through a smile.
He stared at me with big, curious eyes. "Is the baby heavy already?"
I blinked. "Why do you think that?"
"Because you look like you're walking with a watermelon under your shirt."
I laughed — a real laugh — for the first time that day. "That's actually… exactly what it feels like."
He nodded, satisfied. "You need a stroller for your tummy."
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By the time Damon came home, I was sprawled across the couch, one hand on my belly, the other holding a half-eaten pickle dipped in chocolate sauce.
Don't ask.
He paused in the doorway, staring. "Should I even question that combination?"
"Nope."
He walked over, kissed the top of my head, and handed me a heating pad without saying a word.
God, I loved this man.
I pressed the heat against my lower back and sighed. "I'm falling apart."
"You're glowing while falling apart," he said with a grin.
"Liar."
"Okay, but a beautiful liar."
---
Later, when the house was quiet and everyone had gone to bed, I lay awake — sore, bloated, nauseous, and yet… oddly at peace.
Because even though my body didn't feel like my own anymore, even though the symptoms were worse than I remembered, and even though I was exhausted down to my soul…
I wasn't alone.
Damon's warmth was behind me, his hand resting gently on my stomach. Liam's soft snores echoed from the next room. And deep inside, a tiny, growing heartbeat pulsed — a reminder that something miraculous was happening.
Something bigger than the nausea.
Bigger than the cravings.
Bigger than all my fears.
Life was growing inside me.
And despite it all — the chaos, the clumsiness, the tears…
I wouldn't trade it for anything.