Colin’s voice faltered, confused. "Eloise? Eloise Cromwell? She’s the one in surgery?"
Then he laughed—a cruel, sarcastic laugh as he spat, "Don’t be ridiculous. She’s not pregnant. Why would she need an obstetrician?"
He tried to barge in, but the nurses blocked his path. His voice rang out in anger.
"You have no ethics! Neglecting a real pregnant woman—I'm going to report all of you!" he barked.
Tears welled in my eyes, not from the pain but from the realization. Whether I was pregnant or not, if he interrupted the surgery, it could cost me my life. Apparently, to him, my life—and the life of our child—was meaningless. The people fighting to save me were strangers. But my husband, the man I had loved for seven years, didn’t care whether I lived or died.
"She’s losing consciousness! Her blood pressure is plummeting!" someone shouted.
I could hear Colin’s footsteps retreating, leaving me behind, just as he had always done.
I woke up to a soft voice calling my name. The young nurse was by my side again, holding a syringe.
"You’re awake!" she smiled gently, though her eyes were still red. "You were lucky. The knife didn’t hit any vital organs, or it could have been much worse."