At one point, Ethan brushed sweat-soaked hair away from my forehead automatically, like muscle memory had overridden common sense. The touch almost destroyed me.
Because for one stupid second, my body remembered being loved by him.
Not divorced from him.
Not abandoned by him.
Loved.
Then the monitor alarm changed pitch.
Sharp.
Urgent.
The room shifted instantly.
Linda’s expression tightened. “Heart rate dropping.”
Every molecule of air vanished from my lungs.
“What?” I whispered.
Another nurse rushed in.
The monitor beeped faster.
Then slower.
Then faster again.
Ethan’s entire posture transformed.
Not emotionally.
Medically.
Cold focus.
Precise control.
The same terrifying calm he used to slip into during emergency calls in residency.
“Position change,” he ordered.
The nurses moved me quickly.
Pain tore through my abdomen hard enough to make me scream.
But the monitor didn’t improve.
Linda looked at Ethan. “Still dropping.”
Fear exploded inside me.
“No,” I gasped. “No, no, no—”
“Chloe.” Ethan grabbed my hand firmly. “Look at me.”
I couldn’t.
I was already panicking.
“My baby—”
“Our baby,” he corrected softly.
The words stunned both of us.
Silence flashed between us.
Then another alarm sounded.
