EIGHT

ELENA

I jolted awake, my chest rising and falling too fast, the echo of blood still staining my dream. My hands fumbled for the clock on the nightstand, only five in the morning. I closed my eyes, tried to will myself back into sleep, but my body betrayed me. Heat crawled under my skin, restless and uncomfortable. Finally, I gave up, kicking off the sheets and pushing myself up.

Today was the day. Damian was leaving for London, because Isabelle had supposedly had psychological trauma from that awful day. Poor Isabelle, who needed her therapist.

At least I wasn’t entirely alone anymore.

After everything, my mother, frail, unwell, yet stubborn as ever had insisted on coming to stay with me. With her presence, the silence of this house wasn’t quite so suffocating.

I padded downstairs, the floor cool against my bare feet, and paused at the doorway.

There, in the front yard, I saw her. My mother, her thin figure glowing in the early morning sun, a basket of fruit balanced in her hands. The nanny was beside her, the two of them laughing softly as they carried things together. The golden light wrapped around my mother’s shoulders, making her look almost ethereal, untouchable.

For the first time since that nightmare, since those photographs, since Damian’s cruel eyes burned into me, something inside me eased.

“Mom!” I called, my voice breaking but full of relief.

I saw my mother lift her hand, about to wave back at me, when the world exploded.

The bang was deafening, like the sky itself had been ripped apart. The air ignited, trees cracked in half, the road split and flipped, and in the next breath, dust and gravel swarmed like a storm straight at me.

I didn’t think. I just ran.

The door had barely opened before the shockwave hit. It slammed into me, violent and merciless, hurling me backwards like a ragdoll. My spine met the wall with a sickening crack, and for a second, I thought my waist had shattered. A white-hot pain spread down my back, but even through the agony, instinct screamed louder: protect the baby.

I curled around my stomach, clutching it with both arms. The force knocked the breath out of me, and for a heartbeat, or maybe longer I blacked out. Pain dragged me back. My stomach cramped so hard it felt like something inside me was tearing. The sharp pull made me cry out, my palms pressing against the taut curve of my belly.

And then, oh God, the baby moved.

Not the normal, fluttering kicks I’d come to know. No, this was frantic, desperate, like it too felt the danger and was fighting its way out. My chest squeezed as the realisation hit me. Premature; The baby’s coming now.

“No, no, not here, not now…” My voice broke, my lips trembling. Tears blurred my vision.

I struggled my upper body and searched for my mother in the smoke and dust, choking on smoke and dust. The nanny lay crumpled on the ground, unconscious. My heart pounded wildly, but then I saw her, my mother.

She was pinned. A massive board crushed her leg, and blood pooled beneath her, running in a steady, terrifying stream from a gash so deep it made my stomach lurch. Twenty centimetres, maybe more, flesh torn open and bleeding fast.

“Mom!” My scream tore from my throat, raw and desperate.

Her eyes found mine through the chaos, wide with pain, but alive.

“Elena…” she whispered, her voice hoarse. She tried to move, to reach for me, but the board held her down mercilessly.

“Someone… someone… save my child!” My mother’s voice was a hoarse cry against the chaos, but no one came. No footsteps. No shouts. Just the crackle of flames and the ringing in my ears.

Deep inside, I knew: if I didn’t reach help, if I didn’t get to the hospital, my baby would die.

My hands trembled as I searched the ground around me, pushing aside broken wood, shattered glass, and debris with fingers scraped raw. Where’s my phone? Please, God, where’s my phone?

Then I saw it, five steps away, glinting faintly in the dust like a lifeline. Five little steps. But to me, it felt like an entire battlefield stood between us. My whole body screamed in protest, every nerve lit with agony, as if I was tearing myself apart just by breathing.

I lay flat, pressing my palms hard against the ground, dragging myself forward inch by inch.

“Come on, Elena… move.” My teeth ground together. Sweat poured down my face, mingling with the dust and soot until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

The stair edge appeared before me, sharp, jagged, merciless. As I slid over it, the corner dug into my belly, ripping a groan from me so deep I thought I’d pass out then and there. I clutched my stomach with one arm, shielding the baby, but the pain was unbearable, like my womb itself was being slashed open.

I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted iron, forcing myself not to black out.

“Just a little more… just two more steps,” I whispered, though my voice cracked into nothing.

Each shuffle forward drained me, my body trembling violently, my arms giving out under me. My vision swam, black dots spreading at the edges, and I collapsed for a moment, cheek pressed against the cold floor. My hair clung to my damp face, caked with dust and blood. If someone looked at me now, they wouldn’t even recognise me.

But none of that mattered.

With the last scrap of strength left in me, I dragged myself one step closer… then another. My fingers brushed against the smooth edge of my phone.

And I cried not out of relief, but from sheer, broken exhaustion.

I felt every nerve in my body scream, but I couldn’t stop. My hands clutched my stomach as if sheer will could protect her. Each breath burned, each movement sent shocks of pain through me, but I had no time to think about myself. My daughter… she had to live.

My fingertips brushed against the phone, slick with sweat and dust, and I almost sobbed from the relief of that tiny contact. I rolled onto my side, forcing my belly up, cradling it instinctively with both trembling arms, and with shaking fingers I called Damian’s number… the plane hasn’t took off yet... maybe. My chest rose and fell so fast I thought my ribs might split apart.

“Sorry, the phone is turned off.”

The dust settled into my mouth, dry and metallic, and yet all I could hear was that voice. Over and over: Sorry, the phone is turned off.

I hung up with numb fingers, dialled again, another number. I couldn’t cry, not now. Not when every ounce of me was fighting to keep the life inside me from slipping away. Don’t cry, Elena, just keep moving. Just keep breathing.

I thought of my mother’s voice earlier, hoarse and desperate. That plea stitched itself into me, into the marrow of my bones. It wasn’t just my fight anymore. It was hers, it was my baby’s, It was mine. We had to live.

The ceiling of the delivery room swam above me. People moved in a blur, doctors, nurses, hands gloved and voices urgent. Their words broke through in pieces:

“Only she can… push… rely on her body now…”

And then one voice, sharp as a blade:

“Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood, I need to inform you… the child’s condition is very bad. Even if delivered, the survival rate is extremely low. And the mother… her life is also in danger.” My in-laws were here.

The words rooted in my chest like thorns. My life, my child’s life. Both balancing on the edge of a knife.

Through the haze, I saw her, my mother-in-law bursting into the room, My hand shot out, catching hers, my grip wild and desperate.

“Please,” I rasped, my voice torn. “Please… let me keep her. Don’t let them take her from me.”

Her palm smoothing damp hair from my forehead.

“Rest, Elena. Save your strength.”

But I didn’t let go until I saw her nod, until I knew she understood that I would not surrender my child.

Twelve hours of labour.

Sixteen hours of slipping in and out of death’s door, and then… through all that pain, that agony… I heard it.

A faint, fragile cry.

“Congratulations… ”

I didn’t know whether to cry or laugh. She was here. My daughter was finally here. My baby. My Angela.

Angela… that was the beautiful name Damian had chosen if we ever had a daughter.

My body lay motionless, exhausted beyond words. Yet it was nothing compared to the joy in my heart.

My stubborn mind couldn’t help but think back to Damian. I wanted to imagine the excited, proud look on his face when he would hold our daughter in his arms, the small kisses, and the way he would cradle her as he called her name… but I just couldn’t.

Rather, all I could think of were his lawyer’s cold words when he visited me two days ago:

“In three days, Mr. Blackwood wishes to see your signature on the divorce agreement.”

I closed my eyes…