Page 84 of Filthy Rich Daddies
“Tell me where it hurts,” I say, keeping my voice calm even as my insides fracture.
“Low. Center. It’s like—cramping, but worse.” Her eyes squeeze shut. “God, it hurts.”
Dean’s calling ahead to the hospital. Colin’s cursing every red light in the city.
And me? I hold her like she’s made of porcelain and pretend I’m not unraveling.
Not again. I cannot do this again. Not her. Not the babies.
I won’t survive it.
We hit traffic near Lenox, and I hear the siren before I see the lights—blue and white flashing behind us. A patrol cruiser.
“Shit,” Colin mutters. “They think we’re fleeing.”
I grab my phone and dial 911.
“Emergency services?—”
“This is Atticus Copeland. We’re en route to Piedmont Medical with a pregnant woman experiencing acute abdominal pain. We are being pursued by law enforcement. Please alert them. We need an escort now. They can cite us later.”
The operator pauses. “Sir, are you currently evading traffic stops?”
“We are transporting a woman who may be losing her pregnancy. Tell the officers that, or get out of our way.”
The operator says something I don’t register. All I care about is the cruiser speeding up beside us. The lights shift position. The cruiser pulls ahead, cutting through traffic, clearing lanes.
An escort. Thank fuck.
The hospital staff is waiting at the emergency entrance when we pull up.
Thalassa is whisked from my arms into the care of two nurses, an OB resident, and someone barking orders I can’t quite catch. Her hand slips from mine as they roll her away, but her eyes meet mine just before the door closes.
I see the fear in them. And I pray—silently, fiercely—that it’s not the last thing I see.
We’re directed to a waiting area. Dean handles the paperwork. Colin paces. I sit down because my knees are threatening to give out.
It’s Serena all over again. The hallway. The silence. The helplessness. The way my breath doesn’t seem to fill my lungs.
But this isn’t then.
And Thalassa is not Serena. She’s stronger than she knows. And these are not her final moments. I refuse to believe they could be.
Not again.
Twenty-two minutes later, the doctor returns. She’s a short woman in teal scrubs with tired eyes and a steady voice. “She’s okay,” she says immediately.
We exhale in unison.
“The pain was acute, but it wasn’t labor. Not a miscarriage. She’s carrying big twins, and sometimes the weight can strain the uterine ligaments, especially after stress or sudden movement. She’s dehydrated. That’s probably what pushed it over the edge.”
I close my eyes. Relief doesn’t come with fanfare. It comes in fragments, with a quiet, shattering collapse of tension. A single breath, finally taken.
“You can see her now,” the doctor adds, softer.
I’m on my feet before the others.
The hospital room is small, sterile, but quiet. A monitor beeps softly beside her, and she’s lying in the bed with an IV drip in one arm, a warm blanket tucked around her waist. Her hair’s a little messy, and she’s still pale, but her lips curve the second she sees me.
