Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Baby Trap

I woke to fire.

Not the kind that burns buildings or destroys empires—the kind that tears through your body from the inside out, ripping apart everything you thought you knew about pain and leaving you gasping for breath that won't come.

The cramping hit me like a freight train made of molten steel, starting low in my abdomen and radiating outward until every nerve ending in my body was screaming in harmony. I doubled over in the massive bed, my hands instinctively clutching my stomach as if I could somehow hold my baby safe through sheer force of will.

Something was wrong.

Terribly, catastrophically wrong.

"Dominic," I gasped, but my voice came out as barely more than a whisper. The silk sheets beneath me were damp with sweat, and when I shifted, trying to find a position that didn't feel like being stabbed with white-hot knives, I felt something warm and wet between my legs.

Blood.

So much blood.

Terror crashed over me in waves so intense they made the physical pain seem almost secondary. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not now. Not when I'd finally found my footing, finally claimed my power, finally started to believe that maybe—just maybe—I could have everything I'd fought for.

"Dominic!" This time I managed to put some volume behind his name, though it came out cracked and desperate.

He was beside me in seconds, moving with that predatory grace that had somehow become comforting instead of threatening. His hair was mussed from sleep, his chest bare, but his eyes were instantly alert—the eyes of a man who'd learned to go from peaceful to lethal in the space of a heartbeat.

Those eyes widened when they took in my condition, and I saw something I'd never seen before in Dominic Blackwood's face.

Pure, unadulterated fear.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed, and I could hear the barely controlled panic beneath his calm exterior. "How long have you been bleeding?"

Another wave of cramping cut through me, so intense I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but scream. The sound that tore from my throat was primal, animalistic—the sound of someone losing everything they'd fought to protect.

When it finally passed, I found myself curled against his chest, shaking violently as my body tried to expel the life growing inside me.

"We need to get you to the hospital," he said, his voice steady despite the way his hands trembled as he gathered me against him. "Right now."

The ride through the pre-dawn darkness was a nightmare of stop-and-go traffic and cramping that seemed to be getting worse by the minute. Each contraction felt like my body was at war with itself.

"Stay with me," Dominic murmured, his hand warm and steady on my back as I pressed my face against the cool leather of the car seat. "Just breathe. We're almost there."

But I could hear the fear in his voice, could feel the way his muscles stayed coiled and ready, like he was preparing for a fight he wasn't sure he could win.

The emergency room at Mount Sinai was a chaos of bright lights and urgent voices, but Dr. Martinez cut through it all like a blade through silk. She took one look at me—at the blood soaking through my nightgown, at the way I was doubled over in agony—and immediately started barking orders.

"Get her to obstetrics now," she commanded, her voice carrying the authority of someone who'd seen too many emergencies to waste time on pleasantries. "I want a full panel, ultrasound, and prep for emergency intervention. She's hemorrhaging."

Hemorrhaging. Oh my God, please not my baby.

The word hit me like a physical blow, and I felt something inside me break—not physically, but emotionally. The careful control I'd maintained through months of the Reynolds torment, through Blake’s trauma, through the humiliation and the rebuilding and the slow, painful process of learning to trust again, finally cracked.

"Is the baby—" I started to ask, but another contraction cut through me with such violence that I couldn't finish the sentence.

"We're going to do everything we can," Dr. Martinez said, but there was something in her tone that made my blood run cold. "But I need you to tell me everything. What did you eat last night? What did you drink? Any medications, any supplements, anything at all."

I ran through the evening in my mind, trying to focus past the pain and the fear that was consuming me from the inside out. The champagne filled with acid, the elaborate dinner, the celebration that had felt like the beginning of my new life and now might be the end of everything I'd fought for.

"Just water," I said, though my voice sounded small and lost even to my own ears. "And dinner. Nothing unusual."

But even as I said it, something nagged at the back of my mind. Something that felt important, though I couldn't quite grasp what it was through the haze of pain.

The ultrasound room was dimly lit and filled with the kind of expensive equipment that spoke of the best medical care money could buy. Dr. Martinez spread the cool gel across my abdomen with practiced efficiency, but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes stayed fixed on the screen with laser focus.

The silence stretched on for what felt like hours.

"There," she said finally, and her voice was carefully neutral. "The baby's heart rate is... concerning. Very rapid, very irregular. And there's significant uterine irritation."

"What does that mean?" I whispered, though I was afraid of the answer.

"It means your body is trying to reject the pregnancy," she said bluntly. "The question is why."

She turned to face me, and I could see the grim determination in her eyes. "Your blood work is showing some extremely concerning levels. I'm seeing markers that suggest you've been exposed to something highly toxic."

"Toxic?" Dominic's voice came from somewhere behind me, deadly quiet in the way that meant someone was about to die.

"The symptoms are consistent with oleander poisoning," she said, her voice clinical but her eyes worried. "It's a plant that's commonly used in landscaping, but every part of it is highly toxic. Even small amounts can cause severe cramping, bleeding, and in pregnant women..." She trailed off, but the implication hung in the air like a death sentence.

"It causes the body to reject the pregnancy," I finished, my voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded grimly. "We need to get you on IV fluids immediately to help flush it from your system, but I have to be honest with you—at this level of exposure, with this degree of uterine irritation..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "The baby is in severe distress. Your body is actively trying to expel the pregnancy. You may lose your baby.”

The words hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest. I was losing my baby. The one thing I'd fought for, the one thing that had given me purpose and strength and hope for the future, was being torn away from me by someone who wanted to destroy everything I'd built.

That's when the pieces started clicking into place. The nagging feeling I'd had about the evening, the sense that something had been off even in the midst of triumph.

"The petit fours," I said suddenly, my voice sharp with realization. "There were petit fours at the dessert station. I only had one, but it tasted... bitter. Unusual."

Dr. Martinez nodded grimly. "That would be consistent with oleander. The leaves can be ground up and mixed into sweet foods to mask the taste."

"Who had access to the catering?" Dominic asked, and his voice carried the promise of violence that had built empires and destroyed enemies.

But before anyone could answer, the door to the room burst open with enough force to rattle the medical equipment.