The lead nurse stepped between us, her hand on Arthur’s arm.

“Sir, you need to step out now,” she said. “The doctor is here.”

Dr. Aris entered the room, pulling on a pair of sterile latex gloves with a sharp snap.

She looked at me with calm, dark eyes that offered no judgment, only professional focus.

“Avery, it is time,” Dr. Aris said.

Arthur gave my hand a brief, firm squeeze before he backed out of the room.

The heavy wooden door clicked shut behind him, leaving only the sound of the medical equipment.

The next hour dissolved into a blur of bright lights and sharp commands.

The smell of antiseptic was thick, burning the back of my throat with every breath.

I focused on the square ceiling tiles directly above me, counting the tiny black dots in the plaster.

I refused to think about Callum, or the Prescott estate, or the trust documents.

I only thought about the child moving inside me, fighting to get out.

“Push,” Dr. Aris said, her voice steady and low.

The pain was a physical wall, but I pushed against it with everything I had left.