Upstairs, in the ICU, a nurse gently pressed my limp hand against the incubator glass. My babies were alive, but barely. Even in my sedation, my lips moved in silent apology.
No one realized that Adrian’s signature had set something irreversible into motion. He thought he had erased me. Instead, he had awakened something far more powerful.
I woke to a piercing alarm and a hollow ache inside my body. My throat burned. My abdomen throbbed. For a moment, I couldn’t remember why I couldn’t move without agony.
Then it came back.
“My babies,” I rasped. “Where are they?”
A nurse hurried over. “They’re in the NICU. They’re alive. Very small, but stable.”
Relief and fear collided inside me. Tears slid sideways into my hair.
“Can I see them?”
She hesitated. “There are… administrative issues.”
A man wearing a badge that read Administration entered.
“Mrs. Brooks,” he began, then corrected himself. “Ms. Carter. Room 202.”
The correction sliced through me.
“Your divorce was finalized early this morning,” he continued clinically. “The documents were pre-signed and legally binding.”
“That’s impossible. I was unconscious.”
“The paperwork was valid.”
My pulse thundered.
“Adrian wouldn’t—”
“He did.”