Romances de Cynthia

The drive back to Rowan’s estate was quiet. Not the awkward kind. The comfortable kind that only came after a day well spent. Shopping bags filled the back seat. Emma smiled to herself at a memory. “What?” Rowan’s eyes stayed on the road. “You know exactly what.” “You’ve been smiling for the last five minutes.” “I have not.” “You have.” She folded her arms dramatically. “I was simply remembering Stephanie.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Ah.” “What does ‘ah’ mean?” “It means she’s a bad influence.” Emma let out a soft laugh. “On me?” “Very much so.” “I think she’s improving me.” “I noticed.” She turned toward him. “That sounded suspic

The first mistake Rowan made was agreeing to “one last store.” He should have known better. “Steph,” Emma said, laughing as her sister slowed outside another boutique. “You promised.” “I did.” Stephanie pointed through the display window. “Then I saw that.” Rowan followed her finger. He closed his eyes. “…Right.” “I know that sigh,” Emma said. “It means you’ve accepted your fate.” “I’ve accepted bankruptcy.” Stephanie looked genuinely confused. “We’ve barely bought anything.” Rowan glanced down at the shopping bags looped over both arms. “I admire your optimism.” Emma laughed, the sound escaping before she could stop it. She reached for Rowan’s arm to steady herself. He looked down at her hand. She hadn’t even realized she’d done it.

The drive to Emma’s house was painfully quiet. The radio was off. Neither of them reached for it. Outside, the city carried on as if nothing had happened. Inside the car, yesterday still sat between them. Rowan kept his eyes on the road. Twice he almost spoke. Twice he thought better of it. Emma rested her elbow against the window, watching familiar streets pass by in a blur. Every now and then, she caught him glancing at her left wrist. The marks were already fading. His expression wasn’t. “It’s getting better,” she said softly. He nodded once. “I know.” Another stretch of silence. Then, almost too quietly to hear— “I’m still sorry.” Emma looked at him. He wasn’t looking for reassurance. He wasn’t asking her to tell him it was okay.

The nurse walked a few steps ahead of him. Dominic followed without speaking. “…Dad.” She had said it so naturally. As though the word had belonged to him all along. Dominic stopped for half a heartbeat. Dad. He drew a slow breath and continued after her. The automatic doors slid open. Warm air met the chill that had settled into his bones hours ago. Inside the neonatal intensive care unit, monitors beeped in quiet rhythm. Nurses moved from one incubator to the next with practiced hands, speaking softly enough that their voices barely carried. The nurse stopped near the window. She smiled. “Your son.” Dominic looked through the glass. Everything else disappeared. He’d imagined this moment countless times. Hearing that first cry. Feeling tiny fingers wrap around his own. Instead… A tiny boy lay inside an incubator that suddenly seemed far too big. A knitted blue cap covered most of his head. A tube rested beneath his nose. His little chest r

Dominic Sterling hadn’t moved from the chair outside the operating suite in over an hour. Someone had left a paper cup of coffee beside him. It was cold now. He hadn’t noticed. Doctors crossed the corridor. Nurses hurried past with charts tucked against their chests. Somewhere down the hall, a child laughed before being hushed by a worried mother. Life went on. His didn’t. His phone lit up again. Victor Reynolds. He stared at the screen until it stopped ringing. A second later, another call came through. His assistant. Then the board secretary. Then London. He switched the phone off. The company could wait. Nothing else could. The operating room doors swung open. Dr. Harrison walked out with two nurses close behind him, one carrying a clipboard. The doctor’s expression was calm. Too calm. “Mr. Sterling.” Dominic was already standing. Dr. Harrison didn’t waste time. “We can’t wait any longer.” The words landed with frightening clarity.

The ambulance came to a stop beneath the emergency entrance. Before the rear doors had fully opened, Dominic was already climbing out. “Sir—” He ignored the protest, keeping pace with the stretcher as the paramedics rushed Laura through the sliding doors. Her face was pale. Too pale. The oxygen mask hid most of it, but he could still see how little she moved. “Thirty-four weeks,” one of the paramedics reported. “Collapsed at home. Blood pressure remained critically elevated during transport.” Dr. Harrison met them halfway down the corridor. His eyes swept over Laura once before turning to the monitor. “What was the last reading?” The paramedic answered. Harrison’s expression tightened. “When did the headaches begin?” Dominic didn’t have to think. “Three… maybe f