Chapter 116 up
“Breathe, ma’am. Slowly. Follow me.”
The nurse’s voice sounded as if it were coming from underwater. Elara clenched the hospital sheet with whitening fingers as the pain crept back in—sharp, throbbing, then pressing inward as though her womb were being squeezed by invisible hands. The lights along the hospital corridor streaked above her, white and cold, while the gurney wheels screeched beneath hurried steps.
“I… I’m fine,” Elara murmured, even as cold sweat soaked her temples. The words were meant more for herself than anyone else.
Clark ran beside the bed, his suit jacket folded over his arm, his tie loosened. His face was pale; the calm eyes he usually carried were now restless, almost wild. He opened his mouth several times, closed it again. His right hand reached out—then stopped midair, hesitant—before falling back to his side.
“How long have the contractions been happening?” the doctor asked as they were received in the examination room.
“Since this morning,” Elara answered, her breathing uneven. “At first it felt like… ordinary cramps.”
The doctor nodded quickly and gestured. Nurses moved in unison, attaching monitors. The beeping of machines filled the room, its rhythm like a clock forcing everyone to acknowledge time slipping away.
Clark stood in the corner, arms wrapped around himself. His eyes were locked on the screen, on the lines rising and falling. Every time the line dipped, his jaw tightened. When it rose, he exhaled, as if he’d just been allowed to live again.
“Mr. Clark,” the doctor called briefly. “We need to talk.”
Clark turned, then looked back at Elara. Something flickered across his face—fear, yes. But also something darker. Guilt with nowhere to go.
“Whatever happens,” Elara said softly, forcing her voice to stay steady, “don’t lie to me.”
Clark swallowed. “I—”
“Not now,” the doctor cut in. “Please.”
Clark followed the doctor outside. The curtain was drawn. Elara was left alone with the machines and their steady pulse. She closed her eyes, trying to follow the breathing the nurse had taught her. Between waves of pain, her thoughts drifted to the quiet nights lately: Clark coming home late, his phone placed face down, answers clipped and brief, like walls she couldn’t climb.
A door closed somewhere down the hall. Elara opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling.
That little heartbeat… hold on, she pleaded silently. I’m here.
Minutes—or hours—later, the curtain opened. The doctor returned, her expression professional, though tension lingered at the corners of her eyes.
“Mrs. Elara,” she said, “we’re seeing premature contractions. It’s too early. There is a risk of… miscarriage.”
The word fell like a hammer. Elara drew in a sharp breath. On the screen, the line trembled.
“We’ll administer medication to calm the uterus,” the doctor continued. “Complete bed rest. Minimal stress.”
Stress. Elara almost laughed. She turned toward Clark. He stood rigid, as if bound in place. His gaze slid away when their eyes met.
“Is my… my baby—” Elara began, her voice cracking.
“The baby is still there,” the doctor replied quickly. “We’re fighting.”
The nurse injected the medication. Cold spread along Elara’s arm. She nodded, gathering what little courage remained. When the doctor and nurse left, silence settled heavily in the room.
Clark finally moved closer. He pulled a chair over and sat beside the bed. His hand reached out again—this time resting on the back of Elara’s hand, warm and trembling.
“I’m sorry,” he said. Two words that felt far too small.
“For what?” Elara looked at him, searching. “For this fear? For my contracting womb? Or for the lies that brought me here?”
Clark lowered his head. His shoulders sagged, as though bearing a weight heavier than his own body. “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”
“Too late,” Elara said bitterly.
The machine beeped again. Elara closed her eyes, letting silent tears soak into the pillow. Each beep felt like a countdown. She felt something shifting inside her—not just physical pain, but a collapsing belief. If the father had sinned, she thought, was her child paying the price?
“Clark,” she said softly, opening her eyes. “Do you want this child?”
The question hung in the air. Clark stayed silent for too long. That pause—empty—cut deeper than any answer.
“I’m afraid,” he said at last. “I—I’m afraid of making the wrong choice.”
Elara pulled her hand away. “So am I. But I’m not hiding.”
Outside, rain began to fall. Drops tapped against the window, their rhythm blending with the machine. Clark stood, paced two steps, then stopped. He rubbed his face and let out a heavy breath.
“I’ll take care of everything,” he said. “You focus on getting better.”
“The truth isn’t something for later,” Elara replied. “The truth is for now.”
Clark turned his face away. Silence filled the room again. Elara looked down at her still-flat belly and placed her palm there. She imagined a tiny, fragile pulse, dependent on her calm.
Forgive your mother, she whispered inwardly. I will protect you.
The wall clock ticked. A nurse came in and checked the monitor. “The contractions are decreasing,” she said. “That’s good.”
Elara nodded. Clark exhaled in relief—for a moment. Then his face hardened again, like someone who knew the storm wasn’t over.
Night crept in. The lights were dimmed. Clark sat silently, his eyes empty. Elara turned her face toward the window, watching the shadows of rain. Between the steady beats, her thoughts formed into resolve. If he won’t speak, she repeated to herself, I’ll find out on my own.
She remembered fragments: whispers, Selena’s overly calm gaze, sentences that slipped in like thorns. A hidden heir. Elara’s chest tightened. There was a door she had to open, even if darkness waited behind it.
Clark stood. “I need to step out for a moment,” he said, almost in a whisper.
Elara turned her head. “Why?”
“A call,” he replied quickly.
He left before Elara could say anything. The door closed. Elara was alone again. She reached for her phone on the bedside table; the screen lit softly. Her fingers hesitated, then moved. She opened her notes app and typed a single line:
Names. Time. Evidence.
The machine beat steadily. Elara took a slow breath, calming herself. Beneath the pain and fear, something hardened—the resolve of a mother. She looked at the closed door, then back to the screen.
“If you won’t speak,” she murmured, almost a smile, almost a wound, “I will search.”