Chapter 2 - The Blood On The Cold White Sheets
The clock on the floating credenza illuminated the dark room with an eerie green glow, reading exactly 1:58 a.m.
I did not wake naturally; I woke because a tear ripped open inside my body, burning as though hot oil had been poured through my veins.
My eyes flew open, but my chest refused to expand to draw in oxygen.
The air in the master bedroom felt suffocatingly thick, heavy with the metallic tang of fresh copper.
I reached down instinctively to cradle my stomach, but the moment my palm touched the fabric of my nightgown, my fingers slipped on something warm and viscous.
Panic surged through my bloodstream, jolting my heart into an erratic, frantic rhythm.
I threw back the heavy duvet cover and froze in absolute horror.
The immaculate, eight-hundred-thread-count white Egyptian cotton sheets were completely saturated in a widening pool of crimson blood.
The red stain spread outward from beneath my hips, soaking into the mattress, dripping slowly down the side of the wooden bed frame onto the white rug below.
"No, no, please... Daniel... hold on, mommy has you," I sobbed, tears instantly blinding my vision.
I tried to stand, but my legs buckled beneath me like wet paper, sending me crashing directly onto the freezing floor.
A crystal water glass sitting on the nightstand tumbled over the edge, shattering against the stone floor inches from my face.
Sharp shards cut across the skin of my right cheek and forearm, but I barely felt the sting compared to the agony tearing through my pelvis.
I dragged my body across the floor, leaving a sickening trail of red behind me as I reached for my smartphone charging on the low console.
My hands were shaking so violently that I dropped the device twice before successfully pressing the speed dial for my husband.
The phone rang once.
The phone rang twice.
The phone rang three times.
"Please, Julian, answer the phone... please just answer," I begged aloud to the empty darkness.
The line clicked, followed by the dry, automated tone of his corporate voicemail greeting.
"You have reached Julian Vance, CEO of Vance Global Logistics; please leave a detailed message."
I pressed end and dialed again, my fingernails scraping frantically against the cracked glass screen.
Four times I called his direct line, and four times the mechanical voice rejected my plea.
The contractions were no longer rhythmic; they were continuous, locking my entire torso in a vice of unrelenting pain.
With blood-stained thumbs, I opened our text conversation and typed every word in capitalized terror:
"JULIAN, I'M BLEEDING UNCONTROLLABLY. THE PLACENTA HAS RUPTURED. DANIEL IS IN DANGER. PLEASE CALL 911 OR COME HOME NOW."
The message marked as delivered, but no typing bubble appeared.
I pressed the emergency call button for an ambulance, my voice cracking into jagged pieces as I gave the dispatcher our Fifth Avenue address and building access code.
"Ma'am, keep breathing, help is on the way, do not stand up," the dispatcher instructed calmly through the speakerphone.
I curled into a fetal position on the blood-soaked floor, my hands pressed tightly against my lower stomach as if I could physically keep my son inside through sheer force of will.
The minutes stretched into an eternity of terror, each passing second draining the heat from my limbs.
Through the wide floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights flickered indifferent and cold.
I could feel Daniel kicking frantically, a panicked, erratic fluttering that grew progressively weaker with every passing heartbeat.
"Hold on, my darling boy... just hold on until the doctors get here," I wept, kissing the floor as my forehead rested against the cold stone.
Three agonizing hours after I had sent my desperate text message, the phone screen illuminated beside my bleeding cheek with an incoming banner.
It was Julian.
My heart leapt with a pathetic spark of hope as I forced my shaking fingers to tap the notification.
There was no phone call.
There was only a short, cold text message:
"Can this drama wait until morning? I am currently in a critical strategy meeting with our venture partners and cannot step away."
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I stared at those cold, callous words on the glowing screen while the distant wail of sirens finally echoed down Fifth Avenue.
The man who had promised to love and protect me had dismissed our son's life as inconvenient drama while sharing a bed with another woman across the country.
