They shifted me onto the cold operating table under a massive, round light.

An anesthesiologist worked quickly near my head, his fingers moving across a tray of syringes.

“You’re going to feel a sharp pinch in your back, Colonel Langley,” he said.

I arched my spine as best I could, feeling the cold sting of the needle, followed by a spreading warmth that slowly numbed my lower half.

A blue paper curtain was raised in front of my face, blocking my view of my own body.

My hands trembled on the narrow armrests of the table.

“Is my baby okay?” I asked, my voice cracking with a fear I had never felt in all my years of service.

“We’re monitoring her heart rate,” the surgeon replied, his eyes focused over the top of the paper screen. “Just breathe, Tessa.”

I closed my eyes and pictured the Alexandria house, the old oak tree in the backyard, the wooden swing Grant had promised to fix but never touched.

He wanted to leave me with nothing.

He wanted to strip away my family’s legacy before I could even hold our daughter.