Over the next four weeks, Isobel practically lived in the hospital. Her days revolved around feeding schedules, diaper changes, and trying to calm two fussy newborns at three in the morning while surviving on barely any sleep herself.
Even when there were nannies around, the infants demands on her was overwhelming. Eventually, out of pure exhaustion, she learned to sleep with the twins beside her. That way, whenever they woke in the middle of the night hungry and crying, she could pull them close and nurse them without fully getting out of bed. It became their routine—two tiny bodies curled against her as she drifted in and out of restless sleep, surviving on instinct, patience, and a kind of tenderness she never knew she possessed.
"What are their names?" She asked the nanny on the second day.
"Kristoffer and Kirsten," Nanny Dora replied with a gentle smile on her face. She was in her fifties. and was the nanny of Morgan’s youngest sister.
The names had been chosen by their mother before the accident. Christina was still in the ICU, unconscious and fighting for her life while her babies stayed in the nursery, too young to understand that the woman who gave birth to them still hadn’t opened her eyes once.
The moment Isobel heard the baby boy’s name, her entire body stiffened.
Kristoffer.
It sounded too close to Kristoff. Too familiar. Too painful.
For weeks, she had been trying to erase every memory of him from her mind. She didn’t want to think about his voice, his face, or the way he had completely shattered her heart. But now, every few hours, someone in the nursery would say "Kristoffer," and it felt like the universe was deliberately reopening a wound she was desperately trying to heal.
At first, she hated hearing the name.
But it became harder to associate the baby with old heartbreak when the little boy would curl his tiny fingers around hers or cry until she carried him against her chest. And Kirsten—sweet, quiet Kirsten—always seemed calmer whenever Isobel held her.
Eventually, she stopped calling them by their full names altogether.
Kristoffer became Kit. Kirsten became Kat.
The nicknames suited them perfectly.
Kit was loud, demanding, and always hungry. Kat was calmer but clingy in her own way, always searching for Isobel the second she heard her voice. Even the nurses started using the nicknames after a while.
"Kit kept everyone awake again last night."
"Kat refused her bottle until you came back."
And somewhere along the way, Isobel realized something dangerous—she was getting attached.
The twins were no longer just babies she happened to help care for. They had become the brightest part of her exhausting days... and the closest thing she had to a family right now.
They healed her too. They were the cure for her longing to the son she never saw nor knew the name.
On the third day after she gave birth she tried to venture near room 301, hoping to get even just a glimpse of her son but she was unfortunate.
It was the very time that Kristoff and Charlotte visited, to take her baby out of the hospital.
She waited and waited but the door to room 301 remained closed. Then she felt her chest tightening. She could no longer stay. It was time for the twins to nurse.
The moment Isobel turned her back to leave, the door opened and Kristoff stepped out, carrying a bundle in his arms.
He saw a glimpse of a woman in yellow dress walking toward the opposite side of the corridor.
Isobel?
The name echoed in his mind. But when he blinked the woman was gone.
"Darling, what’s wrong?" Charlotte asked. Her gaze followed Kristoff’s line of sight but did not find anyone.
"Nothing. Let’s go home."
...
In the days she had spent feeding the babies, Isobel had slowly learned the difficult art of nursing both twins at once. At first, it had been clumsy and exhausting, with the infants fussing and crying while the nannies hurried to help reposition pillows and swaddling blankets.
But after a week of sleepless nights and quiet persistence, she had finally begun to manage it with some confidence.
Now she sat propped carefully against the headboard, her pale robe loose around her shoulders while the two tiny infants rested in her arms. One baby suckled sleepily while the other wriggled impatiently, little fists curling against her chest.
A nanny stood nearby, adjusting the blanket around the smaller twin and murmuring soft encouragements, while another prepared warm water and fresh cloths beside the cradle.
The room itself was quiet except for the soft sounds of the babies nursing.
Morning light spilled through the curtains, bathing Isobel in a gentle glow that softened the exhaustion beneath her eyes. Though she looked tired—achingly tired—there was also something undeniably tender in her expression as she gazed down at the twins.
It was precisely at that moment that the door opened.
Morgan stepped inside, only to stop short at the sight before him. His hand tightened slightly around the doorknob as surprise flickered across his face. For a brief second, he simply stared—caught off guard by the intimate domestic scene before him.
Isobel, usually so composed and distant, looked softer somehow, almost fragile with the twins cradled against her.
Realizing immediately that he had intruded, Morgan turned sharply to the side and averted his gaze.
"I am sorry," he said quickly, his voice lower than usual. "I will check on my wife first."
A faint flush crept up his neck as he took another step backward toward the door.
"I’ll come back later."
After thirty minutes, Morgan was indeed back. Both babies were sleeping contentedly inside the bassinet.
The babies were already taken out of NICU and roomed in with Isobel.
Isobel’s face was still flushed. She could not look at Morgan in the eyes so she was busy looking down at her clenched fingers.
Morgan sat at the rocking chair beside her bed. Cindy had thoughtfully arranged a rocking chair for Isobel so she could rock the babies while nursing.
"The doctors have given the clearance for the babies to be discharge. The driver and the butler will take you home later."