They had spent the whole summer acting careful. My mother clipped coupons in front of me and sighed over grocery prices. My father shook his head when I suggested one quiet weekend away together, like I had asked him to buy a second house instead of share a motel room and a diner breakfast. “This summer we’re staying in,” Mom told me. “It’s just too much.” I believed her because believing them had become a reflex, even after years of little disappointments. They knew I kept one reserve account for emergencies, and they knew my health was the reason I guarded it like oxygen. At 3:08 in the morning, my phone buzzed hard enough to wake me. The notification said $9,860 had been withdrawn from my reserve fund. I sat up so fast the room tilted, opened the banking app, and watched my own life turn into someone else’s vacation. There were first-class flights to Mykonos. There was a luxury suite, a private driver, designer shops, spa treatments, and restaurant holds that cost more than my rent. Every charge use

Audrey turned her head.

“Seraphina’s husband?”

“Yes.”

The contraction struck fully.

Audrey gripped the blanket.

The paramedic leaned over her.

“Stay with me. Slow breaths.”

But Audrey’s mind was no longer in the ambulance.

It was back in the ballroom, on Seraphina’s face.

Confusion.

Fear.

Or recognition?

Had Seraphina known who she was marrying?

Had the wedding been a celebration—or a business arrangement disguised as one?

The hospital entrance appeared through the rear windows.

The ambulance slowed.

The doors opened, and the night filled with voices.

Audrey was rushed beneath fluorescent lights and through a corridor where everything smelled clean, sharp, and unfamiliar.

A doctor met them near the labor unit.

“I’m Dr. Patel. Audrey, we’re going to take good care of you and your baby.”

Audrey wanted to believe her.

“What’s happening?”

“We need to examine you. Your labor is progressing, but at thirty-four weeks, we want to slow things if we safely can.”

“And if you can’t?”

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