“Mark!” I screamed, my voice cracking with pure, unadulterated panic.
Mark stepped into the doorway of the nursery. He was wearing his expensive wool overcoat, adjusting his watch. He didn’t rush to my side. He didn’t look concerned. He actively avoided looking me in the eye, staring at a spot on the yellow wall just above my head.
“What did you do?” I gasped, pointing a trembling finger at the laptop screen. “Where is the surgery money?!”
Mark sighed, a heavy, deeply annoyed, and incredibly patronizing sound. He ran a hand through his hair, projecting the aura of a burdened, long-suffering patriarch.
“Chloe was in trouble, Elena,” Mark said, his voice dripping with a sickeningly calm, rationalizing tone. “She got in deep with some very dangerous people. Illegal gambling debts. They were threatening to hurt her. She would literally die without that money.”
“I am going to die without that money!” I shrieked, the sheer, staggering sociopathy of his words hitting me like a physical blow. “Mark, the surgery is tomorrow! The hospital won’t admit me without the deposit! I have placenta accreta! I will bleed out!”
Mark rolled his eyes, genuinely irritated by my fear. “Oh, stop being so dramatic, Elena. You’ll just go to the regular ER. The doctors there are fine. They have to treat you by law. It’s just a baby, women do it every day.”
He was prioritizing his sister’s gambling debts over his wife and unborn child’s literal, physical survival.
Before I could speak, a sharp, agonizing, tearing pain ripped through my lower abdomen. It was a pain so intense, so hot and blinding, that it completely stole the oxygen from my lungs.
I dropped the laptop. It clattered loudly against the hardwood floor. I collapsed forward onto my hands and knees, letting out a guttural, wretched cry of pure agony.
A sudden, warm rush of fluid flooded the floor beneath me. My water had broken. I was in active, premature labor.
“Mark!” I sobbed, clutching my stomach, terrified beyond rational thought. “The baby is coming! Call 911! Please!”
