Chapter 83 The Return of Damian Cross
Elena’s POV
By the time we got home, Mila’s crying had turned raw.
Not the normal hungry cry. Not the tired one. This was sharp, strained—like something inside her was screaming along with her. My heart felt like it was being crushed in a fist.
“I’m here, baby,” I whispered, pacing the living room with her pressed to my chest. “Mama’s here. I’ve got you.”
I tried everything. Feeding. Rocking. Singing softly even though my voice shook. I checked her diaper again, her temperature, her little fingers and toes like I might find the answer hiding there.
Nothing worked.
Her face was flushed, her tiny body tense, her cries coming out broken and breathless.
Angie hovered close, eyes glossy with panic she was trying hard to hide. Julian stood a few steps away, silent now, the easy smile gone, replaced with something tight and serious.
“This isn’t normal,” Angie said finally, voice low. “Elena… this isn’t normal.”
I swallowed hard. I already knew.
Julian stepped forward. “We’re taking her to the hospital. Now.”
I looked up at him, grateful and terrified all at once. “Yes. Yes—please.”
There was no more thinking. Just movement.
Julian grabbed his keys. Angie threw on a jacket. I wrapped Mila tighter, whispering to her the whole way out, like my voice alone could hold her together.
Julian drove like his life depended on it—like hers did.
The city lights blurred past as he sped, hands firm on the wheel, jaw clenched. Mila’s cries filled the car, slicing through the air, every sound cutting deeper than the last.
At one intersection, flashing lights appeared behind us.
“No,” I breathed. “Please, no—”
Julian pulled over anyway. A traffic officer approached, already stern.
“Sir, you were exceeding—”
“There’s an emergency,” Julian cut in sharply, gesturing toward the back seat. “My friend’s baby. She’s not okay.”
The officer looked past him, saw my face—tear-streaked, frantic—saw Mila’s tiny shaking body.
His expression changed instantly.
“Go,” he said, stepping back. “Drive safe.”
Julian didn’t wait.
The hospital lights were blinding when we arrived. Automatic doors slid open like they were moving through syrup.
“We need help!” I cried the moment we got inside. “My baby—please—”
A nurse glanced up slowly. Too slowly.
“Fill out this form—”
“She’s not okay!” Angie snapped. “Look at her!”
They took their time. And every second felt like a personal attack.
Mila’s cries were weaker now. That scared me more than anything.
Finally—finally—they took her.
They placed her on a bed, hooked wires to her tiny body, pressed stethoscopes to her chest. A doctor spoke calmly, efficiently, while my world burned.
“She’s severely anemic,” he said. “Her blood level is dangerously low.”
“What does that mean?” I asked, barely recognizing my own voice.
“It means her body doesn’t have enough healthy red blood cells to carry oxygen,” he explained. “That’s why she’s in pain. That’s why she’s crying. Her tissues are struggling.”
I felt sick. “Can you fix it?”
“Yes,” he said. “But we need to act fast. She needs an immediate blood transfusion.”
Relief crashed into me—brief, fragile.
“Okay,” I said quickly. “Do it. Please.”
The doctor hesitated.
“We need compatible blood.”
They tested me first. I didn’t even flinch when the needle went in. I just watched the machine, willing it to say yes.
It didn’t.
Angie went next.
“No match,” the nurse said gently.
Julian stepped forward immediately. “Test me.”
They did.
Same blood group as mine.
Not a match.
My legs felt weak. “Don’t you have blood in the bank?” I asked desperately. “Anything?”
The doctor shook his head. “Your baby’s blood type is rare. We’ve exhausted what we had.”
The room felt too small. Too tight.
“There is one person,” the doctor continued slowly, “who has the highest chance of being a match.”
I already knew.
“The father.”
The word shattered something inside me.
I shook my head violently. “No. I can’t—”
My chest heaved. Tears poured freely now, hot and uncontrollable.
“I can’t call him,” I sobbed. “I can’t.”
Angie grabbed my shoulders, firm. “Elena. Look at me.”
I did.
“This is not about you,” she said, voice breaking. “This is about Mila. You cannot let pride kill your child.”
I crumpled.
“I can’t,” I whispered again. “I can’t.”
“I will,” Angie said.
She took my phone.
I didn’t stop her.
Time blurred after that. Minutes passed. Or maybe seconds. I stared at Mila through the glass, her tiny body surrounded by machines, and felt like the worst mother alive.
Then the doors opened.
He walked in.
Damian.
He froze the moment he saw me.
“Elena?” His voice was hoarse. “What—”
His eyes dropped to the incubator.
Then back to me.
“I have a child?” he asked quietly.
The question broke me completely.
“Yes,” I whispered. “You do.”
His face twisted—shock, pain, disbelief all colliding at once.
“You kept the pregnancy,” he said, voice cracking. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“I tried,” I sobbed. “I tried so many times.”
He took a step closer, eyes glassy. “She’s mine?”
“Yes.”
The doctor cleared his throat. “We need your blood. Now.”
Damian didn’t hesitate.
“Take it,” he said immediately. “All of it if you have to.”
I grabbed his arm, desperate. “Please,” I cried. “Please save our child. Please save my baby.”
“Our baby,” he corrected softly.
The words hit me like a punch.
“Okay,” he said again, steadier now. “Okay. I’ve got her.”
As they led him away, my knees gave out.
I collapsed into a chair, hands shaking, heart splintering into a thousand pieces.
For the first time since Mila was born, I wasn’t carrying this alone.
And that terrified me almost as much as it comforted me.