The siren tore through the Manhattan streets, screaming all the way to NYU Langone.
Paramedics yelled over me. Everything was a blur of red lights, cold rain, and rubber gloves. They wheeled my gurney through double doors into a blinding white room. The air smelled like rubbing alcohol and iron.
"Placental abruption!" someone shouted. "She’s thirty-one weeks! Prep the OR now!"
I could barely breathe. Hands cut my sweatpants off. A cold mask pressed over my nose and mouth.
"Stay with us, Lorelai," a nurse said, tapping my face. "Keep your eyes open."
I tried. But the pain inside my gut was tearing me in half. A monitor started beeping in wild, frantic bursts.
"BP is crashing! Fifty over thirty!"
"Start the incision. Get the babies out now! Hang two units of packed red blood cells! We’re losing her!"
I felt a sharp tug across my lower belly. Cold air hit my open skin. A tiny, reedy wail sounded in the room, thin like a kitten's. Then another.
*My babies.*
I tried to turn my head to see them, but the ceiling spun. Black spots swarmed my vision. The steady beep on the monitor turned into one long, flat screech. The team started shouting names and numbers, their gloved hands pressing hard against my ribs.
Then, everything went black.
***
When I opened my eyes, the world was quiet.
Fluorescent lights hummed above me. Clear plastic tubes ran into both of my arms, taped down tight against my bruised skin. My throat burned. Every breath sent a spike of fire across my fresh C-section scar.
A nurse stood by my IV pole, writing on a clipboard.
"Where..." My voice was a dry rasp. "Where are they?"
"NICU, honey," she said gently. "A boy and a girl. They’re small, but they’re stable. You made it through surgery, but you lost a lot of blood. You've been out for four hours."
Four hours.
The door swung open.
Dominick walked in.
He didn't rush to my side. He didn't run. He stopped right in the doorway, his massive frame blocking the hall light. He wore a fresh black sweater. His dark hair was damp, like he had just taken a long, hot shower. He smelled faintly of hotel soap and expensive mint gum.
He didn't look at my stomach. He didn't look at the bags of blood hanging over my bed. He looked at my face, his eyes totally flat.
"Dom," I whispered, lifting a heavy hand.
He didn't take it. He kept his hands stuffed deep in his pockets.
"They told me at the desk," he said. His voice was steady. Too calm. "Two babies. They're in incubators."
"You... you didn't answer," I croaked out. Tears burned my dry eyes. "I called you. I called Solana."
Dominick didn't blink. His jaw clenched once, then loosened.
"My phone was on silent," he said smoothly. "I was in a meeting. I'm sorry I missed it."
He didn't explain why Solana hadn't answered either. He didn't mention the words I heard through the speaker. He just stood there, five feet away from my bed, looking down at me like I was a broken sparring bag in the corner of a ring.
He didn't touch my hair. He didn't kiss my forehead. He didn't shed a single tear.
"Rest up," he said. He checked his gold watch. "Finnegan is downstairs with the press. We have to manage the statement."
Then he turned and walked out.
***
I spent three weeks in the ICU fighting an infection.
Fever burned through me in waves. Every time I begged to see Asher and Adley, the doctors told me I was too weak to be moved.
Dominick never came back to my room.
Instead, Solana stepped into the vacuum. She brought the babies home the moment they cleared the NICU. She posted updates online, sweet photos of tiny hands wrapped around hers.
By the time the hospital finally discharged me, I was a ghost. My skin was yellow-gray. I walked hunched over, clutching my stomach with one arm to keep my stitches from pulling.
I took a yellow cab to our brownstone in Brooklyn. The afternoon air was freezing. All I wanted was to crawl up the stairs, hold my son and daughter against my chest, and smell their skin.
I walked into the lobby, trembling from the cold.
The heavy glass door clicked shut behind me. Frank, the building’s longtime doorman, stood behind the polished marble desk.
I reached into my coat pocket, pulled out my key fob, and held it against the sensor by the elevator.
*Beep.* A red light flashed. The elevator doors stayed shut.
I tapped it again. Red light.
"Frank?" I turned, my voice cracking. "The fob isn't working."
Frank looked down at his desk. He wouldn't meet my eyes. His knuckles turned white against the edge of the counter.
"Mrs. Taylor," Frank said quietly. "I'm sorry."
"What's wrong with the elevator?" I asked, my heart beginning to hammer. "My babies are upstairs. I need to get up there."
"Mr. Taylor called down this morning," Frank murmured, his face tight with embarrassment. "He had your access revoked. He said your name was taken off the building registry."
A cold weight dropped straight through my stomach.
"What are you talking about?" I stepped closer to the desk, gripping the edge of the marble. "I live here. My husband lives here!"
"A woman named Solana moved in two weeks ago," Frank said softly, keeping his voice down. "She had the nursery redecorated. She told building management she’s the children’s full-time caretaker. Mr. Taylor signed the papers."
He slid a small manila envelope across the counter toward me.
"He left this for you," Frank added. "He said if you try to go up, I have to call the police."
I stared at the envelope. My hands shook so violently I could barely pick it up.
Inside was a single check for five hundred dollars, and a printed note from Finnegan Hughes.
*Find a hotel. Don't make a scene.*
Behind me, the lobby door swung open, letting in a gust of freezing winter wind.
Upstairs, on the third floor, my babies were crying in a room I couldn't enter, being held by a woman wearing my husband’s ring. And I stood in the lobby with nothing, locked out of my own life.