The foam swallowed the sound when I hit the floor.
I went down hip first. Then shoulder. My head cracked against the glass wall. The world spun. Colors bled together—blue foam, pink lights, gold reflections.
I tried to get up. My hands slipped. The foam was everywhere. In my hair. On my face. Cold and chemical-sweet.
Something warm spread between my legs.
Not foam.
I looked down. Red mixed with white. Pink swirls spreading through the decorative clouds.
"Help." My voice came out small. The glass walls ate the sound.
I pressed my hand to my belly. The baby wasn't moving.
"Help!" Louder this time. I looked through the glass.
Declan stood five feet away. Arms crossed. He was talking to Marcus. Both of them looking at their phones.
I slammed my palm against the glass. "Declan!"
He glanced up. Our eyes met.
He shook his head. Turned back to Marcus. Said something. Marcus laughed.
The cramp came then. A fist closing inside me. I doubled over. Foam pressed into my face. I couldn't breathe.
"She's putting on a show," Declan's voice filtered through the glass. Distant. Amused. "She does this."
I screamed. No words. Just sound.
People gathered outside the atrium. Phones up. Recording. No one reached for the door.
The cramp came again. Harder. I felt something tear inside me. Something fundamental giving way.
I crawled toward the door. Left a trail of red. My hands kept slipping. The foam was too thick. Too slick.
"Please." I pressed my face to the glass. Looked at the crowd. "Please open the door."
A woman in a black dress looked away. A man took a photo.
Selena stood at the edge of the crowd. She was smiling. Not the polite smile from earlier. Something else. Something that reached her eyes.
She lifted her phone. Took a photo of me through the glass.
The world tilted again. I lay down in the foam. Too tired to fight. The baby still wasn't moving.
I held my left wrist with my right hand. Pressed my thumb into the pulse point. Counted.
One. Two. Three.
The door finally opened.
A woman I didn't know knelt beside me. Her face was white. "Oh my God. Someone call an ambulance."
Hands lifted me. Voices shouted. The world blurred.
I looked for Declan.
He was gone.
---
The ambulance smelled like antiseptic and old blood.
A paramedic pressed an oxygen mask to my face. "Stay with me. What's your name?"
"Charlee."
"How far along are you, Charlee?"
"Eight months."
Her face changed. She looked at her partner. Said something I couldn't hear.
The siren wailed. I closed my eyes.
The baby still wasn't moving.
---
I woke to white ceiling tiles and the beep of machines.
A hospital room. Pale green walls. The smell of bleach and something underneath it. Something rotting.
I tried to sit up. Pain shot through my belly. I gasped.
A nurse appeared. Middle-aged. Kind eyes. "Easy. Don't move too fast."
"My baby."
She didn't answer right away. She adjusted the IV in my arm. Checked the monitor.
"Where's my baby?"
She sat on the edge of the bed. Took my hand. "I'm so sorry."
I stared at her.
"We did everything we could. The trauma was too severe. There was too much bleeding."
I pulled my hand away. Pressed it to my belly. Flat. Empty.
"No."
"I'm so sorry," she said again.
I turned my face to the wall.
The nurse left.
My phone was on the bedside table. I reached for it. My hands shook.
Seven new messages. All from a number I didn't recognize.
I opened them.
*Congratulations. One less obstacle.*
*You really committed to the performance. Oscar-worthy.*
*Declan's free now. You're welcome.*
*Don't bother coming back. He doesn't want you anymore.*
*PS—Your face looked hilarious in the foam. I sent the photos to some friends.*
*Hope your dad enjoys them too.*
*You're welcome.*
I read them twice. Three times. The words didn't change.
The door opened. A different nurse. Younger. Nervous.
"Ms. Perkins? I need to inform you—your father, Gregory Perkins, was admitted an hour ago. He's in the ICU."
I looked at her.
"He collapsed at home. Cardiac arrest. A neighbor found him. He had his phone in his hand. The screen was still on."
She paused. Looked at the floor.
"There were photos. On his phone. The doctors think the shock—"
I stopped listening.
I put the phone down. Stared at the white ceiling tiles.
My baby was gone. My father was dying. Declan had watched me bleed and done nothing. Selena had sent the photos that stopped my father's heart.
I held my left wrist with my right hand. Pressed my thumb into the pulse.
Counted.
One. Two. Three.
Something inside me went quiet. Not sad. Not angry. Just quiet.
I stopped counting.
I didn't cry.
I started planning.
