“Vivian,” I said, catching my breath as another cramp began to build.

“I hear my son has made a fool of himself,” she said. “But do not think his mistakes change anything. We still have the trust documents.”

I held the phone closer to my ear, my knuckles turning white.

“The trust requires a living heir,” Vivian said. “And that child belongs to the Prescott estate. We will see you in court tomorrow morning.”

The line went dead.

I let the phone slip from my hand onto the wet sheets.

The door opened, and a team of nurses in blue scrubs rushed into the room, their faces grim and focused.

The hands of the lead nurse were cold as they pressed against my abdomen.

“The contractions are three minutes apart,” she said, looking over her shoulder at the monitor.

The green light of the machine cast a pale glow across the linoleum floor.

I gripped the metal side rails of the hospital bed, the steel biting into my palms.

“Where is Dr. Aris?” I managed to ask, my throat dry.