I looked up, meeting David’s terrified eyes as he reached for me.
“Don’t touch me,” I managed to whisper, before the edges of my vision went completely black, and the floor rushed up to meet me.
The rhythmic, mechanical beeping of a heart monitor was the first thing that anchored me back to reality.
I opened my eyes to the harsh, fluorescent lights of a hospital room. The smell of iodine and clean linens filled my nose. My hands instinctively flew to my stomach.
“They’re okay, Lauren,” a soft, familiar voice said.
I turned my head. My mother was sitting in a vinyl chair by the bed, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. She reached out and gripped my hand tightly.
“The babies?” I rasped, my throat dry as paper.
“Both heartbeats are strong,” she reassured me, stroking my hair. “It was a subchorionic hemorrhage. The doctor said the extreme stress caused it. You are on strict, total bed rest for the remainder of the pregnancy. You cannot move.”
I closed my eyes, letting out a long, shuddering breath. The relief was so profound it physically ached. I had almost lost them. I had almost let the toxic gravity of David and Peyton drag my children down with them.
“Where is he?” I asked, dreading the answer.
“Outside,” my mother said, her voice turning cold. “He’s been pacing the hallway for two days. He tried to come in, but Evelyn had security physically remove him. She filed the restraining order while you were unconscious.”
I nodded. Evelyn was worth every penny.
The next three months were a brutal test of endurance. My bedroom became my entire world. My body, which had once been a vehicle for my career and my life, became a sacred, fragile fortress dedicated entirely to keeping two tiny lives safe.
I worked from my laptop, propped up on pillows. My mother managed the house.
And David? David became a ghost haunting the perimeter of my life.
Without access to our funds, Peyton abandoned him within three weeks. The fake pregnancy scandal made him a pariah in their social circles, and his erratic behavior cost him his partnership at his firm. He was reduced to leaving voicemails I never answered and dropping off groceries on the porch that my mother would silently carry inside.
One rainy Tuesday afternoon, the doorbell rang. My mother went to answer it and didn’t return immediately. I heard hushed, urgent voices in the foyer.
A few minutes later, the door to my bedroom slowly opened.
It wasn’t David. It was Eleanor.
