Chapter 12

Anastasia's POV 

Pain rips through me in the early hours of the morning, sharp and unrelenting. I grip the edge of my bunk, biting down on my lip to keep from screaming. This isn't like the false alarms I've had before. This is real.

"Jade," I gasp, my voice strained. "It's time."

She's awake instantly, banging on the cell bars and shouting for the guards. Everything happens quickly after that— the wheelchair, the hurried journey through the prison corridors, the bright lights of the medical unit that make my eyes water.

They transfer me to a narrow bed, and a nurse I've seen during my checkups begins examining me. "You're already six centimeters dilated," she says, surprised. "This baby is coming fast."

"Where's Dr. Eleanor?" I ask between contractions, my body already trembling with exhaustion. She promised she'd be here.

The nurse doesn't meet my eyes. "Dr. Price is unavailable today. Another physician will be handling your delivery."

My heart sinks, but I don't have time to protest. Another contraction tears through me, so intense I arch off the bed, gasping for air.

The hours blur together after that. Pain, brief moments of respite, then more pain. I lose track of time, of everything except the agony consuming my body. The nurse checks on me periodically, but I barely register her presence.

When the door finally opens and a man in surgical scrubs walks in, I'm too exhausted to care that he's not the person I was expecting.

"Ms. Campbell, I'm Dr. Aaron Price," he says, moving to wash his hands. "I'll be delivering your baby today."

"Price?" I manage to say through labored breaths. "Are you related to Dr. Eleanor?"

"She's my mother. She asked me to step in for her—she had an emergency she couldn't avoid."

Relief washes over me, quickly swallowed by another contraction. If he's Dr. Eleanor's son, I can trust him.

He examines me quickly, his movements efficient and professional. "You're fully dilated. It's time to push."

Terror and anticipation flood through me simultaneously. After nine months of hell, I'm finally about to meet my child.

"I'm scared," I whisper.

His expression softens. "I know. But you're going to do beautifully."

The next contraction builds, and he guides me through it. "Push, Anastasia. Use all your strength."

I bear down with everything I have, my entire body straining with the effort. The pain is blinding, all-consuming, but beneath it burns a fierce determination. This baby is all I have left. I will not lose this child.

"Good," Dr. Aaron encourages. "Rest now. Save your energy."

I push again and again, each time feeling like I'm being torn apart. Sweat drips down my face, mixing with tears of pain and fear.

"I can see the head," Dr. Aaron says. "Just a few more pushes."

With the next contraction, I gather every ounce of strength I possess and push with everything I have. The pressure is unbearable, and then suddenly—release.

A baby's cry pierces the air.

"It's a boy," Dr. Aaron announces, and my heart swells with overwhelming love. "You have a son."

A son. I try to sit up, desperate to see him, but before I can, another wave of pain crashes over me. Different, but just as intense.

"What's happening?" I gasp, confusion replacing joy.

Dr. Aaron's expression shifts to intense concentration. "Anastasia, stay calm. There's another baby."

The words don't register at first. "What? No, that's impossible."

"Sometimes the second baby is hidden behind the first," he says quickly, already preparing. "I need you to push again."

Twins. I'm having twins. The realization hits me like a physical blow, but my body doesn't give me time to process it. Another contraction grips me, and I push, drawing on reserves I didn't know I had.

This delivery is faster. Within minutes, another cry fills the room—higher pitched but just as strong.

"A girl," Dr. Aaron says softly. "You have a daughter."

Twins. A boy and a girl. Two perfect lives I brought into this nightmare.

The nurse places my daughter on my chest briefly, and I'm overwhelmed by the rush of love. She's so tiny, so perfect, with dark hair and unfocused eyes searching for comfort.

"Hello, baby girl," I whisper through tears. "I'm your mama."

But the moment is too short. The nurse lifts her away, taking her to the warming station, and I hear her healthy cries filling the room.

"Your son," Dr. Aaron says, and something in his voice makes my blood run cold.

I turn my head toward the other warming table where multiple medical personnel are surrounding my boy, working with frightening urgency. Machines beep frantically, alarms piercing the air.

"What's wrong?" I try to sit up but I'm too weak. "What's wrong with my baby?"

Dr. Aaron's jaw is tight, his movements careful as he finishes the delivery. When he finally meets my eyes, what I see there makes my chest constrict with terror.

"His lungs," he says quietly. "They're underdeveloped. He's struggling to breathe."

"Then help him!" The words come out as a desperate sob. "Please, do something!"

"We're doing everything we can."

I watch helplessly as they work on my son, these strangers who hold his tiny life in their hands. My daughter's strong, healthy cries echo through the room—a sound that should bring joy but instead fills me with crushing guilt. Why is she okay when her brother is dying?

Minutes stretch into eternity. The medical team moves with controlled urgency, but I can see them slowing down, exchanging glances heavy with meaning.

"No," I whisper, shaking my head. "No, please. Don't give up on him."

Dr. Aaron comes to stand beside my bed, and I know before he speaks. I can see it in his face, hear it in the way the room has gone too quiet except for my daughter's cries.

"Anastasia," he says gently, his hand finding mine. "I'm so sorry. We did everything we could, but his lungs were too underdeveloped. There was nothing more we could have done."

The world stops.

Everything inside me shatters.

"No." The word is barely a whisper. "He can't be... you said you were doing everything—"

"I'm so sorry," he repeats, and I hear the genuine grief in his voice. "I'm so, so sorry."

My son. My beautiful baby boy. Gone before I even got to truly hold him.

"I want to see him," I say, my voice hollow. "Please."

Dr. Aaron nods and walks to the warming table. He wraps my son carefully in a soft blue blanket and brings him to me, placing him gently in my arms.

He's so small. So perfect. His tiny face peaceful, as if he's only sleeping. I touch his cheek, his little nose, his impossibly small fingers. He's still warm.

How can he be gone when he's still warm?

"I'm sorry, baby boy," I whisper, tears falling onto the blue blanket. "Mama tried so hard to protect you. I'm so sorry."

My daughter cries from across the room, calling for the brother she'll never know.

"You have a sister," I tell my son through my sobs. "A beautiful sister who would have loved you so much."

I don't know how long I sit there, memorizing every detail of his face. Time has lost all meaning.

Eventually, Dr. Aaron reaches for him. "Anastasia, I need to take him now."

"No." I clutch him tighter. "He's mine."

"I know. I'm so sorry."

Finally, I loosen my grip. As Dr. Aaron lifts my son from my arms, it feels like he's taking my soul with him.

I turn my face to the wall and let out a sound of pure, raw grief—a mother's cry for a child she'll never get to raise.

I have lost everything. My freedom, my family, my husband, my company, my reputation.

And now, my son.

The only thing I have left is my daughter, crying in her bassinet, as alone in this world as I am.

I close my eyes, my arms empty, my heart shattered, and make a silent vow:

I will survive this. Somehow, I will be strong again.

And when I am, everyone who caused this pain will pay.

This isn't over.

It's only beginning.