06

THE door clicked shut behind him.

Damien stepped in, loosening his tie slightly as his eyes moved across the living room.

The table was still a mess.

Boxes left open. Pastries half-eaten. Some barely touched at all. Crumbs scattered like no one had cared enough to clean up after.

He looked at it for a second, then sighed softly and looked away.

His gaze landed on Vanessa.

She was reclined on the couch, her back resting comfortably against the cushions, her legs stretched out and placed on a stool. One hand rested over her stomach, the other lazily tapping against her phone.

Her face was slightly drawn, there was a small frown on it.

Damien’s expression softened almost immediately. He walked toward her.

“You called, Vanessa,” he said, quieter now.

Vanessa didn’t look up right away.

“I did.”

He stopped in front of her.

“You sounded… off,” he added, his tone more careful this time. “I was worried.”

That made her lift her eyes.

“And yet you are here questioning me,” she said.

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I’m not questioning you,” he said, gentler. “I just— I left the hospital for you, Vanessa. I needed to be sure you were okay.”

Her gaze lingered on him.

Then she looked away.

“I wasn’t feeling right,” she murmured.

Damien’s brows pulled together, and he crouched slightly so he was closer to her level.

“What do you mean?” he asked softly. “Was it really the baby?”

Her fingers curled slightly over her stomach.

“I don’t know… I just felt uncomfortable.”

His expression shifted instantly to concern, real concern.

“Hey…” he said, his voice dropping further as he reached out, brushing his fingers lightly against her arm. “You are okay now, right?”

Vanessa glanced at him, then gave a small shrug.

“I think so.”

Damien let out a quiet breath.

“Good.”

A pause.

Then he glanced briefly at the table again.

“You barely ate after I left?”

Vanessa followed his gaze, then wrinkled her nose slightly.

“I didn’t feel like it. I mean Alessia ruined it… with her fake acts,” she rolled her eyes.

He huffed a soft breath, not annoyed, more resigned than anything.

“That was supposed to be for you, Vanessa, acts or not,” he said.

“I know,” she replied lightly, “but I don’t want that anymore.”

Damien nodded slowly.

“Okay,” he said, already reaching into his pocket. “Tell me what you want. I will order it.”

“No.”

He paused, phone halfway out.

“No?”

Vanessa shook her head.

“I don’t want anything from outside.”

He studied her for a second. Then slid the phone back in.

“Alright,” he said patiently. “Then what do you want?”

She shifted slightly, adjusting herself on the couch, her hand still resting over her belly.

“Not me,” she said.

Damien blinked faintly.

“What?”

“The baby,” she corrected softly. “The baby wants something else.”

A small smile tugged at his lips despite himself.

“Of course,” he murmured. “And what does my baby want?”

Vanessa met his eyes.

“Soup.”

He raised a brow.

“Soup?”

“Seafood soup,” she clarified. “Something light… warm and fresh. Very fresh.”

Damien nodded once.

“Alright,” he said. “I will get the best place to deliver—”

“I don’t want delivery.”

He paused again. There was no irritation this time, just confusion.

“Then what?”

Vanessa tilted her head slightly, watching him.

“I want it homemade.”

He stared at her for a second.

“…Homemade.”

“Yes.”

A small silence followed. Then he let out a soft breath, almost amused.

“And who exactly is going to make that?”

Vanessa didn’t answer immediately. She just looked at him. Steady.

Then—

“You are.”

Damien blinked once, then let out a quiet, incredulous laugh.

“Me?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head slightly, still half-smiling in disbelief.

“Vanessa…”

“I’m serious,” she said, though her tone remained soft. “I don’t want anything else.”

He ran a hand through his hair.

“I have never cooked a day in my life,” he said.

“You can learn.”

“That quickly?”

She shrugged lightly.

“It is just soup.”

He looked at her for a long second. Then his gaze dropped to her stomach again.

His jaw softened.

Vanessa noticed.

Of course she did.

“You wouldn’t deny your child something this simple… would you?” she added quietly.

That did it.

Damien exhaled slowly and shook his head. A small, defeated smile tugged at his lips.

“You are unbelievable,” he muttered.

Vanessa’s lips curved.

“And yet here I am.”

He looked at her again. Longer this time.

“…Fine,” he said.

***

The door to the hospital room opened quietly.

“Mrs. Cross—”

The nurse stopped mid-step.

Alessia was no longer lying still.

Her body had shifted halfway up the bed, fingers clutching at the sheets, her breathing uneven, becoming too fast and too shallow. Her chest rose and fell in quick, strained motions, like the air wasn’t getting in properly.

Her lips parted, but the breath that came out sounded wrong.

It was tight and restricted.

Her other hand moved to her throat, scratching and pressing, like something was closing in.

“Mrs. Cross?” the nurse called again, this time sharper, already moving forward.

Alessia didn’t respond.

Her eyes were open, but unfocused, panic sitting in them, raw and uncontrolled. A faint redness had begun to creep up along her neck, spreading unevenly across her skin.

Her fingers trembled where they gripped her throat.

“I—” she tried, but the word broke apart.

The nurse didn’t wait. She turned toward the door instantly.

“I need help in here!” she called out, voice urgent. “Now!”

Footsteps followed almost immediately.

Two more nurses rushed in, followed closely by a doctor.

“What’s happening?” the doctor asked quickly, already moving to the bedside.

“Possible biphasic reaction,” the first nurse replied. “Symptoms just started— respiratory distress, skin involvement—”

Alessia’s body jerked slightly as another strained breath left her. Her chest tightened again. Her fingers dug harder into the sheets.

“Alright, let’s move,” the doctor said. “Get her airway assessed. Oxygen— now.”

A mask was brought up to her face almost immediately.

“Mrs. Cross, can you hear me?” one of the nurses said, her voice firm but calm. “You are okay. We are here. Just try to breathe.”

Alessia shook her head weakly. She couldn’t. Her breathing hitched again.

“Administer epinephrine,” the doctor ordered.

“On it.”

A quick movement, a needle. And medication was delivered.

“Antihistamines ready—”

“Steroids too.”

Everything moved fast. Controlled and precised voices overlapped, sounding urgent.

Alessia’s body was still tense, her breathing uneven even with the oxygen mask pressed gently over her face.

Her eyes darted, unfocused, panic still gripping her.

“Her anxiety is spiking,” one nurse said.

“She is fighting it,” another added.

The doctor nodded once.

“We need to calm her down,” he said. “Prepare a sedative.”

The nurse hesitated briefly. “Doctor—”

“She is not stabilizing fast enough,” he added, already making the call. “If she keeps panicking, it will worsen the airway response. We need her calm.”

That was enough.

“Sedative ready.”

The syringe was passed.

Alessia’s fingers were still clutching weakly at the sheets when the injection went in.

“Mrs. Cross,” the nurse said gently, leaning closer. “We are helping you, okay? Just relax.”

Her breathing hitched once more. Then slowly, it began to ease. Not fully but enough.

Her body softened against the bed. The tension in her hands loosened.

Her eyes, still wide with panic just seconds ago, began to lose focus… blinking slower… heavier.

Until finally… they closed.

The room didn’t quiet, monitors still beeped, machines still hummed. But the urgency shifted.

From crisis to control.

The doctor watched her for a moment longer, ensuring her breathing had steadied under the oxygen support.

Then he exhaled lightly and straightened.

“She will be monitored closely,” he said.

One of the nurses nodded.

“Should we—”

“Yes,” the doctor cut in, already turning away. “Call her husband.”

A pause.

Then, firmer he spoke.

“He needs to be here.”