Chapter 3 - Awakening to a Gold-Plated Nightmare — The Man by My Bedside
The first sensation that returned to me was the smell of cedar, crisp rain, and
the faint scent of expensive sandalwood cologne.
It was a scent that belonged to my dreams—and to my darkest nightmares.
I opened my eyes, the harsh white light making my head throb with agonizing
pressure. My mouth felt full of cotton. The dull, throbbing ache in my lower
abdomen reminded me instantly of the blood, the freezing warehouse floor, and
the paramedics screaming over the siren.
My hands flew to my stomach.
It was flat. Empty.
“My babies!” I gasped, the sound tearing out of my dry throat like sandpaper.
“Where are my babies? Please God, where are they?”
I struggled to sit up, but a pair of strong, warm hands gently caught my
shoulders, pressing me back against the plush pillows.
“Hannah, be still. You’re going to tear your stitches.”
I froze.
The voice was low, deep, and laced with a familiar cadence that sent an icy
shockwave straight down my spine.
I turned my head.
Sitting inches from my bedside, looking at me with dark, bloodshot eyes shadowed
by exhaustion and grief, was Ethan Caldwell.
He had removed his surgical coat. He was wearing a dark navy cashmere sweater
with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, his dark hair disheveled, a shadow
of stubble along his sharp jawline.
“Ethan…” The name tasted like poison and honey on my tongue.
“I’m here, Hannah,” he whispered, his thumb lightly stroking the side of my arm.
“You’re at St. Catherine’s. You’re safe.”
Panic surged through my veins. I ripped my arm out of his grasp, clutching the
white linen sheet to my chest, my heart monitor beeping erratically.
“Don't touch me!” I cried out, my voice trembling with terror. “Where are my
children? What did you do to them? Did your mother send you to take them from
me?”
Ethan’s face tightened with unbearable pain. He held up both hands, taking a
deliberate step backward to give me space.
“Nobody is taking your children, Hannah. They are alive. Both of them.”
Tears spilled over my cheeks in an uncontrollable wave. “Alive? Are they... are
they breathing?”
“They were born at thirty-two weeks due to a complete placental abruption,”
Ethan explained, his professional surgeon's demeanor cracking with raw emotion.
“A boy and a girl. They are in the Level IV NICU right downstairs. They are
breathing with minimal assistance, their vitals are stable, and they are
fighting like hell.”
I buried my face in my hands, sobbing into the coarse cotton sheets. The
crushing weight of fear that had suffocated me for the last twelve hours
dissolved into overwhelming relief.
“Thank God... thank God...”
“Hannah,” Ethan’s voice was barely a whisper. He stepped back toward the bed,
looking down at me with an intensity that pinned me to the mattress. “Eight
months ago. The diner in Rockford during the blizzard. You told me you were just
passing through on your way to Wisconsin.”
My breath caught in my throat.
“You spent that night in my arms, Hannah,” Ethan continued, his jaw trembling.
“And when I woke up the next morning to tell you I had spent five years looking
for you... you had vanished. You left no note. No number. Nothing.”
I turned my face away, staring out the panoramic window at the gray Chicago
rain.
“You shouldn't have been in Rockford, Ethan. And you shouldn't be here now.”
“Why didn't you tell me you were carrying twins, Hannah?” Ethan asked, his voice
breaking. “Why were you working twelve-hour shifts lifting forty-pound boxes in
a freezing warehouse when you were seven months pregnant?”
May you like
“Because they are my babies!” I snapped, turning on him with fierce defiance.
“And I would rather die on a concrete warehouse floor than let the Caldwell
family put their golden claws on my children!”
Before Ethan could reply, his personal tablet chimed on the side table with an
urgent alert tone.
