Chapter 1

I was eight months pregnant, pinned beneath the crushed beams of the family's old house. My blood soaked into the debris.

When Vincent King finally rushed onto the scene, I pushed through the blinding pain and begged him. "Please, save the baby!"

He barely spared me a glance before turning his back. Instead, he scooped up his widowed sister-in-law, Freya Sterling.

She was slumped safely at the edge of the wreckage. I had shoved her out of the way right before the ceiling caved in. She had nothing but a twisted ankle and a few scratches.

Yet, Vincent wrapped his suit jacket tightly around her trembling shoulders, his voice dropping into a desperate, soothing whisper. "I got you, Freya. Don't be scared. I'm right here."

The paramedics swarmed the area, immediately trying to stabilize me.

"How many weeks along is she?" one EMT shouted, prepping an IV. "Any drug allergies? How have her prenatal checkups been?"

Vincent stood frozen, stammering as he scrambled for answers. "She's... almost eight months. I don't know the rest.

But a second later, when a nurse asked if Freya could take medication, the details flew out of his mouth effortlessly.

"She's allergic to cephalosporins," he barked. "She has low blood sugar, and she injured her right foot three years ago, so it flares up in the cold. She needs warm milk before bed."

But the baby didn't make it.

Hours later, Freya stood at the door of my hospital room, her eyes red and puffy as she offered a hollow apology.

"Fiona, I'm so sorry. You're still young, you can always have another one," she sobbed, burying her face in her hands. "But my husband is gone. Vincent is the only family I have left to lean on."

Vincent stepped into her line of sight, shielding her from me as he let out a heavy sigh. "Stop overthinking this, Fiona.

"The King family takes care of our own. My brother died early, and I have a responsibility to look after both households."

******

The downpour hadn't let up by the time they loaded me onto the gurney.

As the paramedics wheeled me past Vincent, he was kneeling in the mud, wiping rainwater from Freya's face.

She sat on a plastic lawn chair, swimming in his suit jacket, her fingers clutching his sleeves.

"Vincent, am I just a burden to everyone?" she whimpered, her eyes welling with tears.

"Hey, it's not your fault," Vincent said, his voice dropping to a gentle murmur. "The estate was ancient. I should've had the foundation reinforced sooner."

I parted my lips to speak, but my throat filled with the bitter, copper taste of blood.

I curled my trembling fingers over my stomach, violently shaking from the agonizing pain. My baby had just been kicking this afternoon.

*****

Vincent called to say he had a late meeting and wouldn't be home for dinner.

Then, out of nowhere, Freya called me. She was sobbing, hysterical about being alone and terrified at the family's old estate, begging me to come over and help her pack up some old clothes.

My mother-in-law, Adeline King, had always strictly forbidden me from setting foot in that house, claiming the damp, ancient place was bad luck for a pregnant woman.

I hesitated, but in the end, I went anyway.

That choice ruined everything. A sudden torrential downpour caused part of the old house to collapse.

In a panic, I shoved Freya out of harm's way, sending her crashing toward the window. She escaped with nothing but a sprained ankle.

I, on the other hand, was buried alive under the rubble.

When Vincent rushed to the scene, his eyes didn't even search for me.

He charged straight toward his sister-in-law, pulling Freya out of the debris and into his arms.

"Vincent, my leg hurts so bad," Freya sobbed against his chest, her voice trembling. "Am I going to be paralyzed?"

He never looked back at me.

Right before the ambulance doors slammed shut, the EMT frantically tracked Vincent down. "Are you coming with her?

"Your wife is in critical condition. We need to get her to the hospital immediately."

Vincent didn't move. Instead, he handed my purse to a nurse. "Her friend is on the way. Please take care of her first.

"I need to ride in the other ambulance with my sister-in-law. She's in severe shock."

The paramedic tried one last time to warn him, shouting, "She's bleeding heavily. The baby is in extreme danger!"

Vincent's fingers stiffened for a fraction of a second.

But then Freya clutched his shirt, her breathing shallow and rapid.

"Vincent, I can't breathe," she gasped, clutching her chest. "My chest hurts."

Vincent immediately turned all his attention back to her, adjusting his grip. "Freya, take slow breaths. I'm right here."

*****

Inside my ambulance, the doctor turned to me with an urgent expression. "How many weeks are you? Were there any complications in your last prenatal checkup?"

I forced the words out through the agonizing pain ripping through my lower abdomen. "Thirty-two weeks... low-lying placenta... the reports are in my bag..."

A nurse dashed out to find Vincent.

Moments later, his muffled voice drifted in from the rainy night outside. "I don't know which paper is the report in her bag."

The doctor pressed on, asking, "Any history of bleeding? Is she on any medication?"

Vincent didn't say a word.

That silence cut deeper and colder than the physical pain tearing me apart.

Through the thin doors, I heard another nurse call out, "Is anyone here for Freya Sterling? Any known drug allergies?"

Vincent answered instantly, "Yes. No cephalosporins, and be careful with painkillers. Her stomach is incredibly sensitive, and she faints if she hasn't eaten.

"Please, get her some sugar water first."

I closed my eyes as the anesthesia flooded my veins.

The last thing I heard was the doctor's grim whisper: "Fetal heart rate is dropping fast. Prepare for an emergency C-section."

When I finally woke up, it was the early hours of the next morning.

The hospital room was dimly lit by a single bedside lamp.