32 Weeks

Thirty-two weeks.  

My body feels like it’s splitting at the seams. Nate’s wedged under my ribs—every kick steals my breath. Leo’s dropped so low I can’t walk without waddling, can’t sleep without peeing every hour. I tie my shoes sitting down now. Sleep sitting up. Even standing still makes my back ache like it’s been kicked.  

This isn’t just pregnancy. It’s survival.  

Then today happened.  

I was mopping the diner floor at noon, sweat dripping down my neck, when I felt it—a warm trickle down my leg. My stomach dropped. Thirty-two weeks. Too early. Way too early.  

Rosa saw my face go pale. She didn’t ask questions. Just shoved a towel at me and said, “Go. I’ll cover.”  

I walked to the bus stop in soaked pants, heart slamming against my ribs. I didn’t go to the Sterling clinic. Never again. I took the bus downtown to County General—the public hospital where no one knows my name.  

The nurse took one look and frowned. “You’re leaking fluid. At thirty-two weeks. With twins.”  

“I’m fine,” I said, voice shaking. “Just a false alarm.”  

She didn’t believe me. Hooked me to a monitor. Two heartbeats—strong, fast. But my cervix was already one centimeter dilated.  

“You’re in preterm labor,” she said. “We need to stop it. Now.”  

They gave me IV magnesium. It burned like fire in my veins. Made my face hot, my hands shake, my vision blurry. All I could think: They’ll find out. The clinic will know. He’ll come. He’ll take them early.  

I begged the nurse: “Don’t call anyone. Please.”  

She studied me. “You running from someone?”  

I turned my face to the wall and didn’t answer.  

They kept me six hours. Gave me steroids for the boys’ lungs. Told me to stay off my feet for a week.  

I walked home in the dark, legs weak, head spinning.  

My phone buzzed on the stairs. My father. “Payment coming soon?”  

“Not yet.”  

“Hurry up. Benny’s getting impatient.”  

He hung up. I sat on the landing and cried—quiet, furious tears.  

Because now I know: my body won’t wait for the contract. They could come anytime.  

Back home, I lay on the couch, too dizzy to move. Nate kicked—frantic, scared. Leo rolled—slow, steady. Like he was saying, I’ve got you.

I pressed my hands to my belly. “Hold on,” I whispered. “Just a little longer.”  

The magnesium made me nauseous. I threw up in the sink, then lay on the cool bathroom floor, cheek against tile, breathing through the shakes.  

I thought about running tonight. Bus to Bakersfield. Train to Mexico. Anywhere.  

But where would I go with no money and two preemies?  

I can’t run. I can only wait.  

Rosa texted: “You okay?”

I replied: “Fine.”

She didn’t push. But I knew she didn’t believe me.  

I ate a banana in the dark. Nate kicked hard—like he was mad I was eating instead of resting. I laughed—a dry, broken sound.  

The worst part? The clinic will know I went to the ER. The contract says all care must go through them. This was a breach.  

I might lose the second payment.  

Or worse—they might send someone to “check on me.”  

I checked the locks three times. Pulled the curtains shut. Sat with my back against the door until Leo’s movements slowed to sleep.  

He’s always the first to calm down. Like he knows I need him to be still so I can breathe.  

I thought about my mom tonight. Did she feel this terror when her fibroids bled? Did she lie on a bathroom floor and wonder if anyone would care if she disappeared?  

I don’t blame her for leaving.  

But I won’t do it.  

I’ll stay. Even if it breaks me.  

Nate kicked again—hard, fast, alive. Like he’s fighting for both of them.  

I put my hand low, where Leo rests. “You’re safe,” I whispered. “You’re mine.”  

The magnesium still buzzes in my veins. My hands won’t stop shaking. But I’m here.  

And as long as I’m breathing, they’re safe.  

Even if the world says they don’t belong to me.  

Even if the contract says I’m just a vessel.  

They’re mine.  

And I’ll burn the whole system down before I let them take him without a fight.  

I woke at 3 a.m., sweating, heart racing. Thought I was leaking again. But it was just fear.  

I touched my belly. Both heartbeats strong. Nate restless. Leo calm.  

I whispered, “Thank you.”  

For the first time, I’m not just carrying them.  

I’m protecting them.  

And that changes everything.  

I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. Just watched the clock tick toward dawn, hand on Leo’s quiet space, listening to Nate’s kicks like they were a promise.  

I made a list in my head: bus routes out of LA, cash I’ve hidden, shelters that don’t ask questions.  

I won’t run yet.  

But I’m ready.  

Because they’re coming.  

I can feel it.  

Not Kai. Not yet.  

But the system. The contract. The moment they realize I’m more than a signature.  

And when they do, I’ll be ready.  

I boiled water this morning. Made oatmeal. Ate slowly, even though my stomach churned. For them.  

Nate kicked when I swallowed. Like he approved.  

Leo rolled when I stood up. Like he was steadying me.  

I washed my face. Combed my hair. Put on clean socks.  

Because if they come today, I won’t look broken.  

I’ll look like a mother.  

Because that’s what I am.  

No contract can change that.  

No payment can erase it.  

No billionaire can buy it back.  

They’re mine.  

And I’ll die before I let them forget that.  

I walked to work slow. Let the sun warm my face.  

Felt Nate stretch like he was greeting the day.  

Leo stayed low, quiet, watchful.  

I passed a woman with a stroller. She smiled.  

I didn’t look away.  

Not this time.  

Because I’m not invisible.  

I’m Remy Vale.  

And I’m carrying two hearts the world tried to erase.  

And they’re still beating.

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