It hit at 2:04 a.m.
A cramp. Then another. Sharper. Lower. Wrong.
I gripped the bathroom sink, sweat slicking my neck.
“Not now," I whispered. “Please not now."
The ER was twenty minutes away. I grabbed a coat, my phone, keys, and made it to a cab without throwing up or passing out. Barely.
I didn't call anyone.
Not Claire.
Not Andrew.
Especially not Andrew.
But as I lay there under fluorescent lights, heart racing faster than the fetal monitor, I hated the silence I'd chosen.
A nurse adjusted the IV. “You came alone?"
I nodded. “It's fine."
It wasn't.
Ten minutes later, he burst through the sliding doors—shirt inside out, shoes untied, hair chaos.
“Fiona Hayes," he barked at the front desk. “Where is she?"
My chest cracked.
He found me, eyes wild. “You okay? Is it—"
“Fals
