His gaze snapped to mine, startled, as though I had offered him something sacred he was not sure he deserved.
“I don’t know how.”
The confession was so quiet it nearly vanished beneath our daughter’s cries.
A nurse smiled. “We’ll show you.”
They cleaned her, checked her, wrapped her in a soft white blanket, and placed her in Adrian’s arms.
He held her like she was made of glass and fire.
The great Adrian Whitmore, who could make grown men tremble with one glance, looked down at his newborn daughter and whispered, “Hello, little one.”
She stopped crying.
Just like that.
Her tiny face turned toward his voice.
His breath caught.
I watched the moment destroy him.
Not ruin him.
Not weaken him.
Remake him.
“What’s her name?” the nurse asked.
I had chosen one alone months ago, whispered it to my belly in the dark.
But now Adrian looked at me, and something unspoken passed between us.
Not forgiveness.
Not yet.
But a fragile thread.
“Eva,” I said.
His mouth softened around the name.
“Eva Whitmore.”
I should have corrected him.
Carter, I should have said.
But I was too tired, and our daughter was sleeping against his chest, and for one impossible moment, the world did not feel broken.
That moment ended when the hospital lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then the entire floor went dark.
A nurse gasped.
Emergency lights snapped on, bathing the room in red.
Adrian moved before anyone else did. He placed Eva gently in my arms, then stepped between us and the door.
Outside, voices rose.
A crash sounded from the hallway.
Dr. Sloane turned pale. “The security system just went down.”
Adrian’s hand slipped beneath the folded pile of his discarded suit jacket.
When it came out, he was holding a gun.
My blood turned cold.
“Adrian,” I whispered.
He did not look back.
“Stay behind me.”
The door handle turned.
Slowly.
Then stopped.
A knock followed.
