Page 93 of If the Ring Fits

I can’t suppress the surge of satisfaction that courses through me.

I did it.

Across the table, the NY police pension fund manager regards me with a stern yet engaged expression, clearly impressed by my pitch. Securing Fulton the management of five billion in assets will be our most significant deal ever. I can already see Dominic, my boss, shaking my hand as he finally gives me that promotion I’ve been chasing.

Our risk manager takes the floor next, launching into a droning spiel about volatility management and safeguards.

My attention drifts to the glass wall behind the investors, where my secretary is frantically trying to catch my eye. I subtly wave her off, not wanting to disrupt the meeting’s flow.But she persists, pressing a sheet of paper to the wall. Big black letters jump out at me:

Rowena is in labor

My heart seizes in my chest, the words blurring before my eyes. I blink, and Wendy adds a second page:

Sam took her to the hospital

In one swift motion, I shut my laptop and rise to my feet, cutting the risk manager off mid-sentence. The room falls eerily quiet, all eyes fixed on me.

“I apologize, but I have to leave. My wife has just gone into labor,” I announce, my voice sounding distant to my ears.

Shocked faces stare back at me—my colleagues, Dominic, the investors. I turn to my head of trading. “Sarah, can you please finish the presentation for me? I need to go.”

She nods, surprise and understanding mingling in her eyes.

I don’t wait for anyone else to respond. I’m out the door in seconds, jaw set as I stride down the corridor. My secretary scurries behind me in her heels, struggling to keep pace.

“Call me a car,” I instruct her, jabbing the elevator button impatiently.

“I already did, Mr. West. It’s waiting for you downstairs.”

I nod my appreciation, stepping into the elevator as soon as the doors slide open. The descent seems to take forever, my foot tapping an anxious rhythm on the floor.

I burst through the lobby doors and into the waiting car. “Clinlada, as fast as you can,” I urge the driver.

As we weave through the New York traffic, my mind racesfaster than the passing city lights. Is Rowena okay? Is the baby? It’s too soon. Why didn’t she call me herself?

I check my phone and find her frantic voicemail. Damn it. I vow to never turn it off ever again, no matter how important the meeting.

The journey feels interminable, each red light a personal affront. When we pull up at the clinic, I’m out of the car before it fully stops, throwing a hasty, “Thanks,” over my shoulder.

I dash through the glass doors, nearly colliding with a startled nurse. I beeline for the reception desk, my hands gripping the edge.

“Where is my wife?” I demand, almost shouting.

The receptionist blinks up at me, probably taken aback by my intensity. “Sir, I need a bit more information. What’s your wife’s full name?”

I run a hand through my hair, ignoring the vise squeezing my throat to say, “Rowena. Rowena Taylor or West.”

She types the info into her computer, each click of the keyboard grating on my overtaxed synapses. It’s forever before the receptionist looks up with a smile.

“Your wife is in the delivery room. Please follow me, we’ll get you scrubbed up and ready to go.”

Relief floods through me as I trail her down the sterile hallway. I’m led to a small bathroom where I hastily wash my hands and don the blue protective gown, cap, and shoe covers.

Then a nurse ushers me into the delivery room. The bright fluorescent lights momentarily blind me as the distinct aroma of disinfectant hits my nostrils. I blink rapidly, taking in the ambience, carefully furnished for comfort, yet unmistakably clinical in essence—a lilac yoga ball, a plush recliner tucked in the corner, the walls painted a soothing sage green.

And there, at the center of it all, lies Rowena on thehospital bed. Tendrils of hair cling to her flushed, glistening face. She looks utterly spent, yet somehow she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. The midwife stands at the foot of the bed, her voice a soothing murmur of encouragement I can’t quite make out.

Rowena’s weary eyes find mine and instantly brighten, relief visibly washing over her. “You made it,” she gasps, a tired but genuine smile gracing her lips.

---