Chapter 8 - THE CRIES IN THE NIGHT
Richard’s scream echoed over the blaring sirens as his knee gave out. He collapsed completely, clutching his shattered leg in agony.
Brooke dropped the crowbar. She didn’t look angry anymore. She just looked exhausted.
“The police are in the lobby,” Brooke said, stepping over him. “I texted the security team the moment the lights went out.”
Within two minutes, armed officers burst into the surgical suite. They dragged a cursing, weeping Richard out of the room in handcuffs.
The threat was gone.
But my battle had just begun.
“Doctor!” I screamed as my water finally broke.
The medical team rushed back to the table. The chaos of Richard’s attack was instantly replaced by the clinical precision of the surgical team.
“We don’t have time for a C-section now,” the doctor said, snapping on his gloves. “He’s coming. You have to push, Emily.”
Mason was instantly by my side, gripping my hand, his knuckles white. His face was bruised from the fight, his tuxedo shirt torn, but his eyes were entirely focused on me.
“You can do this,” he said, kissing my sweaty forehead. “We are safe now.”
For the next twenty minutes, the world narrowed down to the bright lights above me, the crushing pain, and Mason’s steady voice.
“One more, Emily. One more big push!” the doctor encouraged.
With the last ounce of strength I had left, I pushed.
A sudden pressure released.
Then, silence.
For two terrifying seconds, the room was completely quiet. My heart stopped. I looked at Mason, panic rising in my throat.
“Mason?” I gasped.
Then, a small, wet cough.
Followed by a furious, piercing cry that filled the entire room.
Mason collapsed against my shoulder, sobbing. “He’s here. He’s perfect.”
The nurse quickly cleaned the baby, wrapping him in a warm blanket, and gently placed him on my chest.
He was small—born at thirty-four weeks—but he was breathing on his own. He had Mason’s dark hair and a tiny, angry scowl.
“Hi, sweet boy,” I whispered, tears blurring my vision.
Eleanor and Brooke stood near the doorway, watching quietly. Brooke had tears in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Brooke whispered to me. “For everything.”
I looked at her, then down at my son. We had a long way to go to heal the family, but the poison was finally gone.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” I told Brooke.
Mason kissed my head, his hand resting gently on our son’s back.
May you like
“What do we name him?” Mason asked.
I smiled. “Arthur. After his grandfather.”
