CHAPTER 5 — SILENT STORMS
1325 Words
POV: Yessica | Location: New York
The cramping started at two in the morning.
Not the vague discomfort she'd been telling herself was normal for eight weeks. This was sharp. Wrong. The kind of pain that arrived with its own specific grammar — urgent, insistent, impossible to argue with.
She stumbled to the bathroom in the dark.
Turned on the light.
The blood was unmistakable.
"Lewis." Her voice came out strange. Too small. "Lewis."
He appeared in the doorway in twenty seconds — hair dishevelled, eyes unfocused, moving on instinct. He took one look and went completely awake.
"What happened—"
"Something's wrong." She gripped the counter. "The baby. Something's wrong."
He had his phone out before she finished the sentence. "I'm calling an ambulance—"
"Just drive me." Another cramp hit. She bent forward. "Please. It'll be faster."
One second of hesitation. Then: "Can you walk?"
"Yes. Go."
He went.
He ran two red lights on the way to the hospital.
Yessica sat in the passenger seat with her coat pulled around her and her hand pressed flat to her stomach and her eyes on the windshield. The city moved past in blurs of light. She didn't look at Lewis. Didn't speak.
"You're going to be okay," he said. His voice was different from every other version she'd heard from him. Stripped of the control. "The baby's going to be okay."
She didn't answer.
She knew what she knew.
The emergency room was too bright and too loud and full of people who weren't bleeding. Lewis argued with the intake desk until a nurse appeared with a wheelchair.
They moved her to a curtained bay. Blood pressure. Questions.
"How far along are you?"
"Eight weeks." Her voice cracked on it. "Eight weeks and four days."
"Is there any chance of—"
"The baby has a heartbeat. I saw it three days ago. It was strong." She looked at the nurse. "Please."
Lewis stood outside the curtain. She could see his shadow through the fabric — the way he was holding himself. Still. Like he was trying to take up less space than usual. Like he understood, for once, that this wasn't about him.
The doctor came in. Young. Kind eyes. Dr. Patel on his badge.
"Mrs. Sterling. Let's see what's happening." He reached for the ultrasound equipment. Cold gel. The wand pressing.
Lewis pushed the curtain open. "Can I—"
"Yes." Yessica said it before she could decide whether she meant it.
He came to stand beside her. Didn't touch her. Just stood.
Dr. Patel moved the wand. His face was professional and still.
"When did the bleeding start?"
"An hour ago. Less." She stared at the screen. "Is the heartbeat there? I need you to tell me if the heartbeat is there."
Dr. Patel adjusted the angle.
Silence.
Then: "I'm seeing a heartbeat."
The breath she released felt like it had been held for days.
"It's there," she said.
"It is." He frowned slightly at the screen. "But it's weaker than I'd like to see at eight weeks."
Lewis stepped closer. "The baby's alive?"
"For now." Dr. Patel looked at Yessica directly. "This is what we call a threatened miscarriage. The bleeding, the cramping, the weakened heartbeat — these are indicators that the pregnancy is under significant stress." He paused. "I want to be honest with you. There's a meaningful risk of loss."
The room shifted.
"What do we do?" Yessica said. "How do I save it?"
"There isn't much we can actively do except monitor." He kept his voice gentle. "Sometimes these situations resolve on their own. The heartbeat strengthens, the bleeding stops. Sometimes they don't." He paused. "Given the weakness of the heartbeat, I'd recommend considering a D&C procedure. It would prevent complications and—"
"No."
Dr. Patel looked at her.
"Absolutely not." She sat up. "As long as there's a heartbeat, I'm not giving up."
"Mrs. Sterling, I understand, but the risks of waiting—"
"I don't care about the risks." Her voice was steel over something much softer. "That's my daughter. As long as there is any chance at all, I am not giving up on her."
The word daughter landed in the curtained bay.
Lewis was very still beside her.
Dr. Patel looked at the nurse briefly. Then: "All right. We'll admit you for observation. Monitor the bleeding, check the heartbeat through the night. If it strengthens, if the bleeding decreases — those are good signs." He paused. "But please, Mrs. Sterling. Prepare yourself."
"I'm prepared," she said. "I've been preparing for a long time."
They moved her to a room. IV in her arm. The foetal monitor connected, the heartbeat coming through the speaker — faint, irregular, but there.
Lewis sat in the chair beside the bed. Staring at his hands.
"I should have been there tonight," he said.
"You were at dinner."
"I mean here. I should have been—" He stopped. "When you told me it was important. I should have put the phone down."
Yessica looked at the monitor.
"It's not your fault," she said.
"You don't know that."
"Miscarriages happen. Dr. Lin told me. Ten to twenty percent of pregnancies." She paused. "It's not because you answered the call."
But maybe it was. Maybe her body had been carrying three years of cold sheets and empty plates and conversations with his mother through walls, and maybe at some point the body simply stopped pretending.
She didn't say that.
"I'm sorry." Lewis's voice was very quiet. "For the anniversary. For tonight. For — all of it."
"I know."
She turned her face to the window. New York glittering and indifferent beyond the glass.
The apology was real. She could hear that. Lewis didn't perform contrition — it cost him too much to bother faking it. When he apologized, he meant it.
The problem was that meaning it had never been enough to change anything.
His phone rang.
She heard him silence it without looking at it. Once. Twice. A third time.
Each silence was its own small thing.
At six AM, Dr. Patel returned.
Yessica was awake. She'd been awake all night, watching the heartbeat on the monitor, listening to its irregular rhythm with the focused attention of a woman counting every beat.
The ultrasound again.
The wand. The screen.
Dr. Patel looked for a long time.
Then: "The heartbeat is stronger."
Yessica started crying before she could stop herself.
"Not dramatically," he said carefully. "But it's improved. And the bleeding has slowed significantly." He looked at her. "These are good signs. Real ones."
"She's fighting," Yessica said.
"Yes." He almost smiled. "She is."
Lewis's hand came to rest on the bed rail beside her. Not on her hand. Just — close. Asking permission with proximity.
She looked at it.
Looked at him.
She didn't take his hand.
But she didn't move away.
Dr. Patel discharged her at noon.
"Bed rest. One week minimum. No stress, no exertion." He looked at her over his clipboard. "And Mrs. Sterling — do you have support at home? Someone who will actually be there?"
She thought about Lewis. Dubai in two days for the Singapore preliminary meetings. She already knew the schedule.
"Yes," she lied.
"Good." He handed her the discharge paperwork. "She's a fighter. Help her stay that way."
In the car on the way home, Lewis said: "I can cancel Dubai."
She looked at him.
"I'll call Marcus. Rearrange the meetings." He kept his eyes on the road. "I should be there."
She studied his profile. The jaw that was always tight with something he wasn't saying. The hands careful on the wheel.
"Don't cancel," she said.
"Yessica—"
"The baby is stable. I'm on bed rest. There's nothing you can do here that matters more than what you're doing there." She looked out the window. "We both know that."
He didn't argue.
That was the answer.
- Writer
