Chapter 2
Suddenly, Ethan’s phone buzzed loudly against the marble counter. The caller ID flashed brightly: Mom.
Ethan snatched it up and immediately put it on speakerphone. “Hey, Mom. We’re running a little behind.”
Patricia’s voice echoed through the kitchen, sharp, aristocratic, and dripping with practiced condescension. “Running behind? Ethan, the caterers are already circulating the crab cakes. The string quartet is playing. Don’t tell me Madison is pulling one of her little stunts again?”
“I’m not pulling a stunt!” I screamed, my vision blurring at the edges as a third wave of sheer agony ripped through my body, forcing me to my knees amidst the broken glass. “I need an ambulance! My stomach is tearing apart!”
Patricia sighed loudly, the sound vibrating through the phone’s speaker like a physical blow. “Listen to her. Honestly, Ethan, she always does this. She simply cannot stand it when the attention isn’t solely on her. It’s my sixty-fifth birthday. If you do not walk through those doors for the champagne toast tonight, I will be absolutely humiliated in front of the entire board of directors.”
Ethan looked down at me. I was kneeling on the floor, weeping, clutching my stomach. But his face was a mask of cold resentment. There was no pity in his eyes, no fear for his unborn child. There was only irritation.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes, Mom,” Ethan said smoothly. He hung up the phone and grabbed his car keys from the silver tray.
I stared at him in utter disbelief. The pain was making me dizzy, but the betrayal was a cold shock to my system. “Ethan… you can’t leave me here. The doctor said—”
“The doctor said you might experience severe discomfort,” he snapped, stepping carefully around the broken glass so as not to scuff his Italian leather shoes. “You turn every minor inconvenience into a massive crisis when my family needs me. I am going to the dinner. Call your sister if you’re so terrified.”
“Your child needs you!” I screamed, tears streaming down my face, mingling with the sweat on my cheeks.
He paused at the front door, his hand on the brass handle, looking back at me with absolute disdain. “My mother only has one sixty-fifth birthday. You’ve been pregnant for nine months, Madison. You can wait a few hours.”
He stepped outside and pulled the heavy mahogany door shut.
A second later, I heard the distinct, electronic beep followed by the heavy, mechanical thud of the deadbolt sliding into place.
My blood ran completely cold.
We had installed a state-of-the-art smart home security system six months ago. Ethan hadn’t just left. He had used the app on his phone to lock the deadbolt from the outside. The system required a digital passcode on his specific phone to unlock it from the inside without triggering the alarm, a “security feature” he insisted on.
He had intentionally trapped me inside so I couldn’t follow him, so I couldn’t drive myself to the hospital and “ruin” his mother’s perfect evening with my medical drama.
I tried to stand, reaching for the counter, but my legs buckled entirely. I collapsed sideways onto the floor, my palms scraping against the jagged shards of the broken water glass. I gasped in pain, but the cuts on my hands were nothing compared to the terror of what I saw next.
Beneath me, pooling rapidly on the pristine white tiles, was a massive, dark crimson stain.
The smell of copper filled the air, thick and suffocating. I was bleeding heavily. This wasn’t the slow progression of labor; this was a catastrophic failure inside my body. My placenta was tearing away.
Trembling uncontrollably, I dragged myself across the floor. My maternity dress was soaked, sticking to my legs. I left a horrific, smeared trail of red across the white tiles, dragging my heavy body toward the living room where the landline phone sat on the console table. My cell phone was upstairs in my purse, a million miles away.
Every inch of movement sent white-hot spikes of agony through my pelvis. The room was spinning, the edges of my vision tunneling into dark gray clouds.
I have to save her. I have to save my baby.
I reached the console table, my bloody, glass-cut fingers fumbling blindly for the receiver. I knocked it off the hook. It clattered to the floor. I dragged the receiver to my ear and blindly punched 9-1-1.
“911, what is your emergency?” a calm, steady female voice answered.
“I’m pregnant,” I sobbed, my voice barely a breathless whisper. “I’m bleeding… so much blood. Thirty-eight weeks. My stomach is hard like a rock.”
“Okay, ma’am, I am dispatching paramedics to your location right now. Can you tell me your address?”
I forced the words out, fighting the heavy wave of unconsciousness threatening to pull me under. “442… Oakridge Lane. But you have to tell them… my husband locked the door. It’s a steel-core smart door. I can’t reach the manual override. I’m on the floor. I can’t move.”
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“Stay with me, Madison. They are three minutes out. Do not close your eyes.”
But the pain was a living thing now, chewing through my nerves. The contractions were no longer waves; they were a continuous, crushing pressure. I dropped the phone. The dispatcher’s voice became a tinny, distant buzz.
