Chapter 3

The surgical lights in the operating room were beaming down on my face.

I felt exposed, like everyone was judging me.

"Henry." I shouted, my voice cracking. "What are you talking about?"

He didn't flinch. He adjusted the monitor and said, "It's the truth."

William snapped out of it, glancing between us, his eyes practically sparkling with gossip.

"So you two are..." he started.

"Ex-boyfriend," I spat, gritting my teeth. "We broke up. The baby isn't his."

"Eight months," Henry added, his tone cold. "We broke up eight months ago. She's been pregnant for eight months."

William said, "Oh..."

That single word carried enough drama to fill a whole romance novel.

"It's a coincidence." I almost shouted. "Can't there be coincidences in this world?"

Lucy muttered under her breath, "That's a little too much of a coincidence."

I wanted to strangle her.

But with my legs numb, an IV in my hand, and the heart monitor beeping, I could not even turn over.

That was the reality I was stuck in: I lay on the operating table, numb from the waist down and trapped on all sides. I'd already blocked my only escape route eight months ago.

Henry stood beside me, holding a clipboard, his tone all business. "The patient's emotional state is unstable, and her blood pressure is high. I recommend we proceed with the surgery immediately."

William nodded. "Alright, let's get started. Sophie, take a deep breath and try to relax."

Relax, my ass.

The surgical drape was pulled up, blocking my view.

I couldn't see what was going on down there, felt a bit of tugging.

Henry sat by my head.

As per procedure, Henry, my anesthesiologist, had to keep a close watch on my vitals for the entire C-section.

So he had to stick by my side the entire time, the whole time. There was no way out.

"Your heart rate's a bit high," Henry said, glancing at the monitor. "128. If it goes any higher, we'll have to do something about it."

"If you'd shut up, my heart rate wouldn't be so high," I shot back.

"Alright, I'll keep quiet."

There was silence for three seconds.

I was starting to relax.

"When did you find out you were pregnant?" Henry asked.

My heart rate shot up to 135.

"Henry!" I snapped.

"Alright, I'll stop asking."

There was another five seconds of silence.

"Where did you get your prenatal checkups?" Henry asked again.

My heart rate shot up to 140.

The monitor started beeping.

William called out from behind the drape, "Henry, are you sure you can handle this? Her heart rate's almost 150."

Henry finally shut up.

He fiddled with something on the IV, and I felt a warm rush flood my veins, my heart finally started to calm down.

He looked down at me.

From this angle, the surgical lights hit his face, and his lashes cast a tiny shadow.

To be honest, looking at him like this, he had the kind of face that could fool anyone.

Three years ago, that face fooled me.

"Sophie," Henry murmured, his voice so soft only I could hear. "Doesn't matter if the baby's mine or not. Right now, you need to relax. We'll deal with everything else after you're out of surgery.

"I'm your anesthesiologist. In here, your safety is all that matters. Everything else can wait."

I turned my head away, refusing to meet his eyes. My nose suddenly got a little stuffy. It must have been the anesthesia; it had to be.

I had no idea how much time had passed. "Waaah," a loud cry rang out.

William's voice came from behind the drape. "Congratulations, Sophie. It's a girl, six thirteen, and healthy as can be."

The nurse brought the baby over for me.

She was this tiny, wrinkled bundle, with her eyes squeezed shut and crying her lungs out, yet she had a surprising amount of hair for such a small newborn.

In that instant, everything else vanished from my mind. The ex, the drama, the embarrassment, none of it mattered anymore.

I stared at my daughter's little face.

I endured eight months of pregnancy, three months of vomiting, two months of swelling, and over a dozen prenatal checkups alone. It was all worth it.

"She's so tiny," I said, my voice a little hoarse.

The nurse smiled. "All newborns look like this. She'll be cute soon enough."

Then a hand reached out. It was slender, with well-defined knuckles and clean fingertips, and it belonged to Henry.

He gently touched the baby's finger.

Her wrinkled little hand instinctively curled around his index finger.

His expression changed.

I'd never seen Henry look like that before.

Those usually cold and distant eyes seemed to shatter, and yet in that same instant, something inside appeared to be completely and perfectly restored

"She looks like you," Henry said.

I turned away. I wouldn't look at him.

"Dr. Carter, keep it professional," I said.

He stayed silent.

The operating room went quiet for a moment.

Then William's voice floated over, teasing, "Henry, I've been a doctor for thirty years, and this is the first time I've seen an anesthesiologist make a family claim right on the operating table. Want me to make it official for you two?"

Everyone in the room burst out laughing, except me. I wanted to die, literally a social death.