Chapter 17 Chapter 17
~SEVENTEEN~
Two weeks passed without any more threatening messages, and I started to convince myself that maybe it had just been a cruel prank. Detective Morrison traced the number to a burner phone that had been discarded in a dumpster downtown. Dead end.
I was still in the hospital, now at twenty-one weeks pregnant. Dr. Chen was cautiously optimistic but insisted I stay under observation until at least week twenty-four, when the babies would have a better chance of survival if something went wrong.
"Every day they stay in there is a victory," she told me during one of her daily check-ups. "You're doing great, Miss Blake. Both babies are growing well, and your bleeding has completely stopped."
"Can I go home soon?" I asked hopefully.
"Let's give it another week," she said. "I want to be absolutely sure everything is stable before we discharge you."
Declan had moved his entire operation to my hospital room. He conducted meetings via video conference, reviewed documents on his laptop, and made decisions about Norex while sitting in the chair beside my bed.
"You know you don't have to babysit me twenty-four seven," I told him one afternoon. "I'm sure the company needs you—"
"The company is fine," he interrupted. "Rick is handling the day-to-day operations, and I'm available for any major decisions. But my place is here with you."
"What about the house?" I asked. "Is it secure now?"
"Completely redone," he assured me. "New security system, reinforced doors and windows, twenty-four-hour monitoring. And I hired a private security team to patrol the property. No one is getting in there without us knowing about it."
I nodded, but I couldn't shake the anxiety that had settled in my chest since that threatening text. Someone out there wanted to hurt us, and we had no idea who or why.
My phone buzzed. It was Sarah.
"Hey, I'm downstairs," she said. "Can I come up?"
"Of course!"
A few minutes later, Sarah appeared with a huge gift basket full of pregnancy books, baby clothes, and chocolate.
"You didn't have to do this," I said, touched by her thoughtfulness.
"Are you kidding? You're my best friend, and you're having twins. I had to do something," Sarah said, settling into the visitor's chair. "How are you feeling?"
"Bored out of my mind," I admitted. "I love that the babies are safe, but being stuck in this bed for weeks is driving me crazy."
"I can imagine," Sarah sympathized. Then her expression turned serious. "Anita, can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Are you scared?"
"Terrified," I admitted. "Scared about the babies, scared about whoever sent that threatening text, scared about being a mother, scared about everything."
"You're going to be a great mom," Sarah said firmly. "And Declan is going to be a great dad. You two have been through hell, and you're still standing. That's pretty amazing."
"We've had a lot of help," I said. "From you, from Rick, from the doctors—"
"Stop being modest," Sarah interrupted. "You're strong, Anita. Stronger than you give yourself credit for."
After Sarah left, I felt a little better. Maybe she was right. Maybe we really were going to be okay.
That evening, Declan stepped out to grab dinner from the cafeteria. I was alone in the room, scrolling through baby name websites on my phone, when I heard a soft knock on the door.
"Come in," I called, expecting a nurse.
But the person who entered wasn't a nurse.
It was a woman I'd never seen before—middle-aged, expensively dressed, with sharp features and calculating eyes.
"Miss Blake?" she said. "I'm Catherine Reynolds. I believe we need to talk."
"I don't know who you are," I said warily, reaching for the nurse call button.
"I'm Victoria's mother," she said, and my hand froze.
"Get out," I said immediately. "Get out or I'm calling security."
"Please, just hear me out," Catherine said, raising her hands in a placating gesture. "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here to apologize."
"Apologize?" I repeated incredully. "Your daughter tried to kill me and my babies, and you want to apologize?"
"My daughter is mentally ill," Catherine said quietly, her composure cracking slightly. "She has been for years. I tried to get her help, tried to intervene, but she's an adult and I couldn't force her. And now look what's happened."
"What do you want from me?" I asked coldly.
"Nothing," Catherine said. "I just wanted you to know that I'm horrified by what Victoria did. And I wanted to assure you that the Laurence family will not be coming after you. Victoria acted alone, without our knowledge or support."
"How do I know I can trust you?"
"You don't," Catherine admitted. "But I hope in time you'll see that I'm telling the truth. My family has already released a public statement condemning Victoria's actions. We've cut all ties with her. She's on her own now."
"Good," I said harshly.
Catherine looked at me with something like pity. "I hope you and your babies will be happy, Miss Blake. I hope you'll have the peaceful life that my daughter tried to take from you."
She turned to leave, then paused at the door. "One more thing. If you do receive any more threats or strange messages, it's not from my family. We want nothing to do with this situation. But I'd encourage you to be careful. Victoria made a lot of connections during her time in business. Some of those people are... unsavory."
After she left, I sat there in shock. Victoria's own mother had disowned her. It should have made me feel better, but it didn't. It just made me sad—sad that Victoria had destroyed so many lives, including her own family's.
When Declan returned with dinner, I told him about Catherine's visit.
"She actually showed up here?" he asked, his jaw clenching. "I should have been here."
"She wasn't threatening," I said. "She just wanted to apologize and let us know her family isn't involved."
"Do you believe her?"
"I think so," I said. "She seemed genuine. Broken, even."
Declan was quiet for a moment. "Victoria's mental illness doesn't excuse what she did, but it does explain some of it. I should have seen the signs when we were together."
"You can't blame yourself," I said. "She was good at hiding it."
That night, after Declan fell asleep in the chair beside my bed, I lay awake thinking about everything. In just a few short months, my entire life had changed. I'd gone from a quiet, unexciting existence with Jake to this—a whirlwind of danger, love, pregnancy, and constant chaos.
Part of me missed the simplicity of my old life. But most of me wouldn't trade this for anything.
Because despite everything we'd been through, I was happy. I loved Declan. I loved our babies already, even though they weren't born yet. And I was excited about our future together.
The next morning, Dr. Chen came in with great news.
"Your vitals look excellent," she said. "The babies are growing perfectly. I think we can talk about sending you home in a few days."
"Really?" I asked, hardly daring to hope.
"Really," she confirmed. "You'll still be on strict bed rest, but I think you're stable enough to recover at home with regular check-ins."
Declan and I celebrated by ordering a fancy lunch from a nearby restaurant—as fancy as hospital bed rest allowed, anyway.
"We're going to make it," I said, feeling genuinely optimistic for the first time in weeks. "The babies are going to be okay."
"They're going to be more than okay," Declan said. "They're going to be perfect. Just like their mother."
Three days later, I was finally discharged from the hospital. Declan had arranged for a medical transport van to take us home—no chance of me having to climb into a regular car.
When we arrived at the house, I was amazed by the changes. Not only was there new security, but Declan had also arranged for the master bedroom to be brought downstairs. Our entire living space had been reconfigured so I wouldn't have to use stairs.
"You did all this?" I asked, looking around in wonder.
"I told you I'd take care of you," he said simply.
That first night home was both wonderful and terrifying. Wonderful because I was finally out of the hospital. Terrifying because I no longer had doctors and nurses just a button-push away.
"What if something goes wrong in the middle of the night?" I asked Declan as we settled into bed.
"Then we call Dr. Chen's emergency line and drive straight to the hospital," he said calmly. "We're ten minutes away, and I've already mapped the fastest route. Everything is going to be fine."
I tried to believe him.
The next few weeks fell into a routine. I spent my days in bed, reading, watching television, and occasionally doing light work on my laptop when Dr. Chen allowed it. Declan worked from home, checking on me every hour. Rick visited regularly with company updates. Sarah stopped by almost daily to keep me company.
At my twenty-four week checkup, Dr. Chen had even better news.
"You've reached viability," she announced with a smile. "If the babies were born today, they'd have about a sixty to seventy percent chance of survival. Every day from here on out, those odds get better."
I cried tears of relief. We'd made it to a crucial milestone.
"How much longer do I need to stay on bed rest?" I asked.
"Ideally, until week thirty-seven, which is considered full term for twins," Dr. Chen said. "But realistically, if we can get you to week thirty-four, I'd be very happy. That's another ten weeks."
Ten more weeks of bed rest sounded like an eternity, but I'd do anything to keep my babies safe.
That night, as Declan and I were celebrating the good news with sparkling cider and take-out from my favorite Italian restaurant, my phone buzzed with a text.
Unknown number.
My heart sank.
Congratulations on week 24. I've been following your progress closely. The babies are growing so well. It would be a shame if something happened to them now. - A Friend
"Declan," I said, showing him the phone with shaking hands.
His face darkened as he read the message. "That's it. I'm calling Detective Morrison."
But when Detective Morrison arrived an hour later, he had troubling news.
"This number is also a burner phone," he said. "And it was purchased with cash at a convenience store. No surveillance cameras in that particular store. We have no way to trace who bought it."
"So someone is just out there, watching us, threatening us, and we can't do anything about it?" I asked, feeling panic rising in my chest.
"We're doing everything we can," Detective Morrison assured me. "I've assigned officers to patrol your neighborhood. We're monitoring your online activity for any signs of stalking. But Miss Blake, I'm not going to lie to you—without knowing who's sending these messages, it's hard to protect you from a specific threat."
After he left, I looked at Declan, tears streaming down my face.
"When does this end?" I asked. "When do we finally get to be happy without looking over our shoulders?"
"Soon," he promised, pulling me close. "This person, whoever they are, will make a mistake. They'll slip up. And when they do, we'll catch them."
But I wasn't so sure.
Because so far, this mysterious "friend" had been very, very careful.
Over the next two weeks, the messages continued. Always from different burner phones, always untraceable, always just threatening enough to terrify me but vague enough that the police couldn't do much.
The babies are kicking now, aren't they? I can almost feel them myself.
Security systems can be bypassed. Locks can be picked. No one is ever truly safe.
Have you thought about names yet? Don't bother. They won't need them where they're going.
Each message made me more paranoid, more afraid. I stopped sleeping well, jumping at every sound. Dr. Chen warned that the stress wasn't good for the babies, but I couldn't help it.
"We should hire a private investigator," I suggested to Declan one night.
"Way ahead of you," he said. "I hired someone last week. He's been looking into anyone who might have a grudge against us—former employees, business rivals, Victoria's associates, Jake's family."
"And?"
"Nothing yet," Declan admitted. "But he's thorough. If there's something to find, he'll find it."
I wanted to believe that, but with each passing day and each new threatening text, my hope was fading.
At my twenty-six week appointment, Dr. Chen noticed my anxiety.
"Miss Blake, I need you to try to relax," she said gently. "I know that's easier said than done, but the stress is causing your blood pressure to rise. That's not good for you or the babies."
"How am I supposed to relax when someone is threatening to hurt my children?" I asked, my voice breaking.
"Have you considered talking to a therapist?" Dr. Chen suggested. "Many of my patients find it helpful, especially those dealing with high-stress situations."
I agreed to try, and Dr. Chen referred me to a therapist who specialized in pregnancy-related anxiety and trauma.
Dr. Lisa Martinez was a warm, understanding woman who made me feel comfortable immediately. Over our first video session—I couldn't leave the house—I poured out everything that had happened over the past months.
"That's a lot of trauma for anyone to process," she said when I finished. "It's no wonder you're anxious."
"I just want to feel safe again," I said. "I want to enjoy being pregnant instead of being terrified all the time."
"That's a completely normal desire," Dr. Martinez said. "Let's work on some coping strategies for when the anxiety gets overwhelming."
She taught me breathing exercises, meditation techniques, and ways to challenge my anxious thoughts. It helped, at least a little.
But then, at twenty-seven weeks pregnant, everything changed.
I woke up in the middle of the night to find Declan's side of the bed empty.
"Declan?" I called out.
No answer.
I reached for my phone to call him, but it was dead. The battery had drained completely, which was odd because I'd plugged it in before bed.
I grabbed Declan's phone from his nightstand, but it was dead too.
A chill ran down my spine.
I called out again, louder this time. "Declan!"
Still no answer.
Using the landline on the nightstand—thank God we still had one—I called Declan's cell. It rang from somewhere in the house.
Following the sound, I carefully got out of bed, my heart pounding. Dr. Chen's orders about bed rest echoed in my mind, but something was wrong. Very wrong.
I found Declan's phone in the kitchen, still ringing.
But no Declan.
That's when I saw it—the back door was slightly ajar.
He would never leave it open. Never.
I dialed 911 with shaking hands.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"My fiancé is missing," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "And I think someone broke into our house."
Within minutes, police arrived. They searched the entire house and the yard.
"Miss Blake, there's no sign of forced entry," one officer said. "Are you sure Mr. Harris didn't just step outside for some reason?"
"In the middle of the night? Without his phone? Without telling me?" I said incredulously. "No. Something's wrong."
They found more evidence in the backyard—signs of a struggle, Declan's watch on the ground, and most chillingly, a note pinned to the back fence.
You took something p
recious from me. Now I've taken something precious from you. If you want him back alive, you'll do exactly as I say. Wait for my call. - A Friend
I read the note three times before the words really sank in.
Someone had kidnapped Declan.
And I had no idea who or why.