The room became a cathedral of small sounds. The hum of equipment. The soft drag of the scanner across my stomach. My breath catching whenever the doctor paused too long.
Adrian never touched me again without asking, but his presence warmed the air beside me. I hated that it comforted me. I hated more that I needed it.
At last, Dr. Patel straightened.
“I want you admitted for monitoring,” he said.
My mouth went dry. “Today?”
“Yes. Your baby is stable, but the blood flow through part of the placenta is not ideal. We may only need to watch you overnight. We may need to deliver earlier than planned. I don’t want you going home until we know which.”
Adrian’s face turned to stone. “Then she goes to the best hospital in Chicago.”
“She goes where her medical team can coordinate her care,” Dr. Sloan said evenly. “That’s currently Northwestern, where Dr. Patel has privileges.”
“I’ll arrange private transport.”
“I can walk,” I snapped.
Everyone looked at me.
I pressed a hand to my stomach, embarrassed by the tremor in my voice. “I’m not helpless.”
“No,” Adrian said quietly. “You’re not.”
The agreement disarmed me more than an argument would have.
Dr. Sloan helped me sit up. “Elena, I know this is frightening, but you came in at the right time. That matters.”
At the mention of my name, Adrian’s eyes softened.
Elena Moretti.
No. Elena Walsh again, at least on paper. I had taken back my maiden name with the same shaky determination that had carried me through nights alone in my rented studio, folding tiny onesies on a mattress because I could not afford a dresser yet.
Adrian saw me wince as I swung my legs over the side.
“May I help?” he asked.
That question again.
I nodded because I was tired of pretending my back didn’t ache and my ribs didn’t feel bruised from the inside.
He offered his arm. Not his command. Not his authority. Just his arm.
I took it.