The pain was beyond anything I had felt—worse than the contractions. I screamed. The monitors erupted in frantic alarms.
“Code blue! Code blue!” someone yelled.
Everything after that felt like a fast-forwarded film. Security tackled Travis to the floor. Dr. Patterson barked instructions. Deborah screamed about lawsuits and “family reputation.” Lauren was on her phone—I caught the words “police” and “assault.” Then darkness swallowed me.
I woke up in recovery two days later, the sharp scent of antiseptic filling my nose. For a moment, I didn’t know where I was—or why my body felt shattered. Then memory rushed back. My hands flew to my stomach—flat and empty.
“No,” I whispered, panic flooding me. “No, no—”
“They’re okay,” a soft voice assured me. Lauren leaned over me, her eyes swollen from crying. “Your babies are okay. Two beautiful girls—five pounds, one ounce, and four pounds, eight ounces. They’re in the NICU, but the doctors say they’re going to be fine.”
Relief hit me so hard I sobbed. Lauren squeezed my hand while I cried.
“How long was I out?” I asked.
“Two days. They had to do an emergency C-section. There were complications from the trauma—they kept you sedated while they stabilized you.”
“Travis?” I forced out.
“Arrested,” Lauren said firmly. “Assault, domestic violence, endangering unborn children. The hospital has security footage. There were witnesses everywhere. A detective wants to speak with you when you’re ready.”
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