There was only the green glow of the monitor and the crushing pressure in my pelvis.

The rain beat a steady, relentless rhythm against the double-paned window of the room.

I focused on the small yellow light of the nurse call button on the wall.

I thought of my mother, and the warm yellow nursery she had painted for me when I was a child.

I thought of that same room in the penthouse, which Sloane had painted over in a cold, metallic gray.

I promised myself I would paint it yellow again, just as it used to be.

“Excellent progress,” the doctor said, her voice cutting through my thoughts. “We are ready to push.”

Sarah held my right leg, and a second nurse held my left.

“On the next contraction,” Sarah said.

The pain built to a peak, and I pushed with every ounce of strength left in my body.

“Again,” the doctor urged.

The room seemed to shrink until there was only the sound of my own breathing.

I thought of Nathan’s lies, his whispers, and his attempts to make me feel small in my own home.