Instinctively, I clutched at the hem of Ivan's shirt, my voice barely a whisper. "Help me... my stomach hurts so much..."
But Ivan's expression hardened. "Stop faking it. In your last life, you delivered a healthy boy just fine. Nothing's going to go wrong this time either."
The pain was so intense I couldn't form words. Maybe my expression was convincing enough, because Ivan wavered, half-believing, and moved to help me up.
But Glenda grabbed his arm. "Ivan, let me take a look. I've been through childbirth before—I know what I'm doing."
She pressed Cooper into Ivan's arms. He seemed about to say something, but the boy's whimpering cut him off. Ivan cradled the child carefully, drifting toward the window, patting his back and murmuring softly.
Glenda came closer. Slowly, she peeled back the blanket—and her eyes went wide.
Dark crimson blood was seeping from between my legs, soaking through my nightgown.
Then she smiled. "Oh my, it's nothing at all! Stella, you really are delicate, aren't you?"
Ivan's face went cold, just as she'd intended.
"I knew it, Stella. You were faking."
Glenda flashed a coy smile. "Isn't a wife meant to be pampered? She's just a little sensitive, Ivan. You should comfort her more."
"If she can't handle this much pain, imagine what labor will be like. You'd better book her an epidural in advance."
Then her expression shifted to something pitiful. "Though I've heard epidurals and C-sections can affect the baby. For Cooper's sake, I gritted my teeth and pushed through it all on my own."
Ivan scoffed. "Who's giving her an epidural? My son was perfectly well-behaved. No drugs, no interventions—smooth natural delivery."
Pride dripped from every word. A flicker of jealousy passed through Glenda's eyes.
By then, my consciousness was slipping. In the last moment before everything went dark, all I saw was Glenda pulling him toward the door.
Despair—absolute, bottomless despair—crashed over me.
When I opened my eyes again, the sharp sting of antiseptic filled my nostrils.
A wave of pain tore through my lower body, and I groaned before I could stop myself. Then someone seized my hand and held on tight.
"Stella!!"
Mom. Dad.
My mother's usually immaculate hair was in disarray, her eyes swollen and raw. The moment she saw me awake, her voice cracked. "Stella, it's okay. It's going to be okay..."
It took me a beat to register what was happening. I was on a hospital bed, being rushed down a corridor toward the operating room.
"Doctor, the patient is hemorrhaging!"
"The baby is likely lost. Where's her husband? We need his signature for the procedure."
"She's my daughter—I can sign! Doctor, please, you have to save her—"
"Per hospital policy, for an emergency procedure like this, we need the patient's husband present. There may be implications for her future fertility."
The doctor's urgent instructions, my mother's desperate pleas, my father's barely contained fury—all of it tangled together in a deafening knot.
I lay on the bed gasping for air, riding out wave after wave of searing pain. Then I heard my father on the phone with Ivan.
"Ivan Vance! Get yourself to this hospital. Now."
On the other end, Ivan's voice was tinged with surprise. "Dad? Is Stella throwing a fit about going to the hospital again? Ever since she got pregnant, she's been paranoid—always convinced something's wrong with the baby."
"It's just a pregnancy. A friend of mine was a few months along and still unclogging her own toilet, changing lightbulbs, hauling packages."
"Stella's just too high-maintenance."
Accusation after accusation. My father finally snapped. I heard him speak through gritted teeth: "If you don't get here right now, the Hayward family will never let this go."
Ivan had started his own company, but a significant portion of his connections had come through my father's introductions. On the other end of the line, there was a moment of hesitation.
