The moment my father pulled the blanket from my seven-month-pregnant body, the carefully constructed story my husband and mother-in-law had been telling for months collapsed.

Chapter 5

Dad’s hand tightened around mine.

“What is it?”

The corporal kept the monitor pressed against my stomach, her eyes on the small screen, her voice carefully professional.

“Her blood pressure is dangerously high, Colonel. And the baby’s heart rate is showing signs of distress. The sedatives, the trauma, the stress — it’s all compounding. I think we need to get her to the hospital. Now.”

Everything after that moved too fast to follow.

Dad was on his feet, barking orders. The officers were moving, clearing a path, and someone had an arm under mine, helping me stand for the first time in weeks. My legs buckled beneath me — I had forgotten how to walk, how to hold my own weight, how to do anything but lie still and be quiet.

Dad caught me before I fell.

“I’ve got you,” he said. “I’ve got you, Emily.”

The hallway was full of light and noise. Neighbors had come out of their apartments, drawn by the commotion, their faces a blur of shock and curiosity. I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Alvarez from 2B, the old woman who sometimes left me plates of food by my door when Ryan was at work. She pressed her hand to her mouth when she saw me.

Outside, an ambulance was waiting, its lights painting the gray afternoon in red and white.

Ryan’s voice cut through the noise as they loaded him into a military police vehicle across the street.

“She’s exaggerating again! You’re all being played! She’s been lying to everyone since the day I met her—”

For the first time in months, I looked at him without lowering my eyes.

“No, Ryan,” I said, loud enough for him to hear. “I’m finally telling the truth.”

Something in his face flickered.

Then the ambulance doors closed, and he was gone.

Inside the ambulance, Dad sat beside me, still in his dress uniform, the silver eagle on his shoulder digging into my cheek as I leaned against him. The corporal had come with us, monitoring the baby’s heartbeat, her face unreadable.

“Her pressure’s still climbing,” she said quietly.

Dad didn’t answer. He just held my hand and stared at the ceiling of the ambulance, and I could feel the tension in him like a live wire.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry, Dad.”

“What are you sorry for?”

“For lying to you. For making you worry. For—for letting them do this—”

“Emily.” His voice was firm, but gentle. “Look at me.”

I looked at him.

“None of this is your fault,” he said. “Do you hear me? None of it. You survived. You’re still here. That’s all that matters to me.”

The hospital lights were too bright.

The gurney wheels squeaked on the linoleum.

Hands were on me — gloved, efficient, moving fast — and Dad was being pushed back, told he couldn’t come any further, and his face was the last thing I saw before the doors swung shut.

“I’m here,” he called after me. “I’m not going anywhere, Emily. You are not alone anymore.”

I wanted to answer him.

But the world was already going gray at the edges, and all I could feel was the baby turning inside me, and all I could think was a single, terrible thought.

Please. Please let her be okay.

Please let me have done enough.