Chapter 10 - THE BIRTH THEY PLANNED
The operating room filled with masks, lights, and urgent voices.
My contractions came too fast.
My blood pressure dropped.
The fractured arm throbbed against its temporary brace.
Dr. Bennett leaned over me.
“We may need an emergency cesarean.”
“Will she live?”
“We are doing everything we can.”
“Don’t let anyone take her.”
“No one will.”
I grabbed her wrist.
“Say it.”
Her eyes softened.
“No one takes your daughter.”
Agent Brooks stationed officers outside every entrance.
Mateo stood beyond the glass in clean scrubs, waiting in case radiology imaging was needed.
I saw him touch his bruised jaw.
Then he lifted one hand.
A small gesture.
Stay.
I held on.
Grace was born at 4:17 p.m.
She weighed four pounds, six ounces.
She did not cry immediately.
The silence nearly killed me.
Then a thin, furious sound filled the room.
I sobbed.
Dr. Bennett held her near my face for one second before the neonatal team moved her to an incubator.
Grace opened one tiny hand.
Her fingers curled around nothing.
“I’m here,” I whispered.
The room blurred.
When I woke, my mother sat beside my bed.
No officers.
No nurses.
No alarms.
For one confused second, I thought I was dreaming.
Then I saw the syringe in her hand.
“You always make everything harder,” she said.
I tried to move.
My body felt heavy.
She had already injected something into my IV.
“Where is Grace?”
“Being prepared.”
“For what?”
“For the future your father stole from us.”
I reached for the call button.
She removed it from the wall.
“Rose?”
Her eyes hardened.
“That child should never have survived.”
My breath caught.
“What did you do?”
“Garrett was weak. Robert was sentimental. I had to correct both mistakes.”
I forced my fingers toward the bed rail.
She pressed the syringe against my IV port again.
“Don’t.”
“You’ll sleep.”
The door opened.
Mateo entered carrying an X-ray cassette.
My mother turned.
His eyes dropped instantly to the syringe.
“Step away from her.”
She grabbed my throat with one hand.
The syringe hovered above the line.
“Leave.”
Mateo set the cassette down slowly.
“You won’t get past the hallway.”
“I already did.”
He looked at the ceiling camera.
The red light was off.
Someone had disabled security again.
My mother smiled.
“You people depend too much on systems.”
Mateo moved one step closer.
She pushed the syringe into the port.
I swung my good arm.
The needle tore free.
Medication sprayed across the sheet.
Mateo lunged.
My mother struck him with the metal IV pole.
He fell against the cabinet.
She ran.
I hit the emergency button on the bed.
Nothing happened.
The system was dead.
Mateo pushed himself upright.
“She’s going to the NICU.”
My blood froze.
Grace.
He ran into the hallway.
I dragged myself from the bed.
Every part of me screamed.
But I followed.
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At the end of the corridor, the NICU doors stood open.
Inside, one incubator was empty.
