Inside the ambulance, the world dissolved into a flurry of latex gloves, IV needles, and cold plastic masks.
“Starting a wide-bore IV line with lactated Ringer’s,” the paramedic shouted over the roar of the engine. “Administering magnesium sulfate to stall the contractions. Hang on, Maren. Stay with me.”
The needle pierced the back of my hand, cold saline flooding my veins. A clear plastic oxygen mask was strapped over my mouth and nose, forcing sweet, cool oxygen into my burning lungs.
Every time the ambulance took a sharp curve on the winding mountain descent, my body screamed with pain. The contractions were no longer coming in waves; they were overlapping, a relentless, grinding vice that felt as though my hips were being split apart from the inside.
I closed my eyes, picturing Elliot’s face.
I remembered our wedding day six years ago in Manchester. It had rained in the morning, but by the time we reached the altar, the clouds had parted, bathing the stone chapel in golden light. Elliot had cried when he saw me walking down the aisle. He had taken my hands in his, his voice trembling as he vowed to protect me, to cherish me, to build a future together based on honesty and devotion.
How long had he been lying?
Had he loved me for even a single day?
Or had he looked at the quiet, driven architect with an inheritance from her self-made father and seen nothing more than a mark to be cultivated, drained, and discarded?
The memories burned hotter than the sauna heater. The petty criticisms from Diane over the years—how I dressed too simply, how I worked too many hours, how I didn’t cater to her son’s delicate ego—they hadn’t just been the complaints of an overbearing mother-in-law. They had been the calculated chipping away of my self-worth, an ongoing campaign to make me feel small, isolated, and dependent.
And when I didn’t break—when I demanded an audit after discovering $42,000 missing from our joint maintenance reserve—they realized they couldn’t control me.
So they decided to eliminate me.
“Hospital in two minutes!” the driver yelled from the cab.
My vision began to blur at the edges, a creeping gray vignette that threatened to swallow my consciousness. The magnesium sulfate was burning through my veins like liquid fire, making my limbs feel heavy and detached.
“Fetal heart rate is dipping,” the paramedic said, her voice tight with panic as she tapped the Doppler screen. “110… 105… she’s decelerating! We’ve got cord compression or placental separation!”
“Step on it!” the other medic screamed through the partition.
The ambulance banked violently to the left, tires roaring as it hit the concrete apron of the emergency bay. The doors flew open, revealing a wall of bright fluorescent lights and a swarm of doctors and nurses in blue scrubs waiting with a trauma gurney.
“Thirty-four-year-old female, thirty-four weeks gestation, victim of thermal confinement and physical assault,” the paramedic rattled off rapidly as they transferred me across the sheets. “Severe fetal distress, late decelerations, BP unstable!”
A doctor with sharp blue eyes and a surgical cap leaned over me, shining a penlight into my pupils.
“Maren, can you hear me? I’m Dr. Vance—Dr. Sarah Vance, chief of obstetrics. We need to deliver this baby immediately. You are suffering a partial placental abruption. If we don’t perform an emergency C-section right now, we will lose her.”
The name hit my ears like a shockwave.
Vance.
“Vance?” I slurred through the oxygen mask, terror gripping my throat. “Are you… are you related to Evelyn Vance?”
The doctor paused for half a second, her brows knitting in confusion. “Evelyn? She’s my estranged aunt. I haven’t spoken to that side of the family in ten years. Why?”
I grabbed the front of Dr. Vance’s surgical gown with what little strength remained in my fingers.
“Your aunt… forged a document to kill me,” I wheezed, looking straight into her eyes. “Save my daughter. Do not let them take her.”
Dr. Vance’s face went completely pale, but her professional composure snapped back in an instant. Her eyes hardened with fierce resolve.
“Nobody is taking anyone,” Dr. Vance said, turning toward her surgical team with an authoritative roar. “Prep Operating Room 2 for an emergent classical cesarean! General anesthesia! Call hospital security and lock down this wing! No visitors, no family, nobody gets past that double door without a police escort! Move!”
The ceiling tiles raced past in a blur of fluorescent glare. Doors banged open. The metallic clatter of surgical instruments being prepped echoed through the sterile air.
A nurse placed a soft rubber mask over my face.
“Breathe deep, Maren. Count backward from ten.”
“My baby…” I whispered into the darkness gathering at the edges of my mind. “Save my baby…”
