Chapter 28 Margaret's Kindness
I wake up in the hospital for what feels like the hundredth time.
Dr. Chen is there, his face grave.
"Welcome back," he says quietly. "You gave us quite a scare."
"Rory?" The word comes out hoarse, desperate.
"She's fine. Still in there, still fighting." He helps me sit up slightly. "But Sage, your body can't take much more of this. The abruption has worsened. You're anemic from the blood loss. Your blood pressure is dangerously high."
"How long?" I already know the answer. Can feel it in my bones.
"Days. Maybe a week at most. We're going to have to induce labor soon, whether you're ready or not."
Days. I have days left before everything changes forever.
They keep me in the hospital this time. No going home, no bed rest in the Garcias' guest room. Just constant monitoring, medications, and waiting.
Carmen and Rafael visit daily, bringing news from the outside world. The data entry work has piled up, but Rafael's boss is understanding. Told them not to worry, that my job will be waiting when I'm ready.
On day three, something unexpected happens.
A woman appears in my doorway. She's elderly—probably in her seventies—with silver hair pulled into a neat bun and sharp eyes that see everything.
"Are you Sage?" she asks in accented English.
"Yes. Who are you?"
"Margaret Chen. I'm Dr. Chen's mother." She enters without waiting for permission, pulling up a chair beside my bed. "My son tells me you're a rogue. Pregnant, alone, and being hunted by your former pack."
The directness is startling. "That's... yes. That's accurate."
"He also tells me you're a hard worker. That you quit a job to stay safe, and now you're worried about money."
I don't know where this is going, but something about her presence is calming. Like Mrs. Chen from White Moon—a grandmother figure who radiates competence and care.
"I can't afford not to work," I admit. "But I can't risk being found either."
"Hmm." Margaret studies me with those sharp eyes. "I run a small business—data processing for medical offices. Very boring work, but necessary. I've been looking for someone reliable to help with the overflow."
"I'm already doing data entry for—"
"This would be more." She pulls out a tablet and shows me spreadsheets. "Medical coding, insurance verification, that sort of thing. Completely remote. You'd never have to meet clients or even leave your home. Twenty-five dollars an hour, as many hours as you can handle."
Twenty-five dollars an hour. That's more than triple what I was making at Rosie's.
"Why would you offer this to me? You don't know me."
"My son vouched for you. That's good enough." She tucks the tablet away. "And I know what it's like to be alone in a strange place. I came to Canada from Taiwan forty years ago with nothing but my nursing degree and my two-year-old son. If people hadn't helped me, we wouldn't have survived."
The parallel to my own situation isn't lost on me.
"I don't know how soon I'll be able to work," I warn her. "I'm about to have a baby. And I don't know what condition I'll be in afterward."
"Then you start when you're ready. I'm not going anywhere." Margaret stands to leave, then pauses. "And Sage? My son tells me your daughter is special. Powerful. That makes her vulnerable. After she's born, you'll need to be even more careful about who knows about her. About where you are."
"I know."
"Good." She nods approvingly. "Smart girl. We'll talk more after the birth."
After she leaves, I lie there processing the encounter.
Another act of unexpected kindness from a stranger. Another lifeline thrown when I need it most.
Maybe I'm not as alone as I thought.
That night, the contractions start again.
This time, they don't stop.
Dr. Chen makes the decision quickly. "We're inducing labor. Now. Your body can't handle waiting any longer."
The next hours are a blur of pain and fear and medications that make everything fuzzy.
Labor progresses fast—too fast. My body, already pushed to its limits, seems eager to be done with this pregnancy.
"I can see the head," a nurse announces. "She's crowning."
"One more push, Sage," Dr. Chen urges. "You can do this."
I push with everything I have, screaming with the effort.
And then suddenly—relief.
A baby's cry fills the room. Strong, loud, furious.
"It's a girl," Dr. Chen says unnecessarily, because I knew that. Have known for months.
But hearing it, seeing him hold my daughter for the first time, makes it real.
"Aurora," I gasp. "Her name is Aurora."
They place her on my chest for just a moment—long enough for me to see her face. She's huge for a premature baby, easily seven pounds. Her eyes open, and they're amber. Pure amber, like her father's.
She looks at me, and I swear she sees me. Really sees me.
Then she's gone, whisked away to be checked, measured, evaluated.
And I'm left alone, bleeding and exhausted, wondering if I'll ever hold her again.
Because the bleeding isn't stopping.
"Dr. Chen," a nurse says urgently. "Her pressure is dropping."
"Hemorrhaging," he confirms grimly. "Get me—"
His words fade as darkness claims me again.
I dream of running through forests with a little girl who has amber eyes and my smile. We're chasing each other, laughing, completely free.
Then the dream shifts.
I'm back in White Moon territory. Stella is there, holding Aurora, telling everyone she's hers. Mason believes her. No one remembers me.
I try to scream, to fight, to take my daughter back.
But I can't move. Can't speak. Can only watch as they walk away with my baby.
"Sage. Sage, wake up."
Dr. Chen's voice pulls me back to consciousness.
I'm in a hospital room. The surgery is over.
"Aurora," I croak. "Where's Aurora?"
"In the NICU. She's perfect, Sage. Six pounds, eleven ounces. All her vitals are strong. She's breathing on her own." He smiles. "She's a fighter, just like her mother."
Relief crashes over me so intensely I start crying.
"Can I see her?"
"Soon. You lost a lot of blood during delivery. We had to do an emergency D&C to stop the hemorrhaging. You'll need to rest and recover first."
"But she's okay? Really okay?"
"She's more than okay. She's extraordinary." Dr. Chen pulls up a chair. "Sage, I've delivered thousands of babies. I've never seen one born at six months who was so developed, so strong. Aurora is a miracle."
A miracle. My daughter is a miracle.
"When can I hold her?"
"Tomorrow, if your vitals stabilize. For now, rest. Let your body heal."
But I can't rest. Can't stop thinking about Aurora in the NICU, alone, without me.
Carmen visits that evening, carrying photos on her phone.
"Rafael and I went to see her," she says, showing me pictures. "Sage, she's beautiful."
The photos show a baby with dark hair and perfect features, swaddled in a hospital blanket. Her eyes are closed in the pictures, but I can see the strength in her tiny face.
My daughter. My Rory.
"The nurses say she's the calmest baby in the NICU," Carmen continues. "Doesn't cry unless she's hungry. Just lies there, watching everything with those big amber eyes."
"She has her father's eyes," I say without thinking.
Carmen doesn't ask who the father is. Just squeezes my hand.
"She's going to be okay, Sage. You both are."
The next day, they wheel me to the NICU in a wheelchair.
Aurora is in an incubator, even though she doesn't really need it. Protocol, the nurse explains, for all babies born before term.
"You can touch her through the ports," the nurse says. "We'll move her to a regular bassinet tomorrow if she continues doing well."
I reach through the port, my hand shaking, and touch Aurora's tiny fingers.
She immediately wraps her hand around my finger, gripping with surprising strength.
And she opens her eyes.
Amber. Deep, intelligent amber eyes that lock onto mine.
In that moment, something shifts in my chest. A bond snapping into place, stronger than anything I've ever felt.
This is my daughter. My Rory. And I would burn the world down to protect her.
"Hi, baby girl," I whisper. "I'm your mama. I'm here. I'm always going to be here."
Aurora's grip on my finger tightens, and I swear she smiles.
The nurse clears her throat. "This is unusual, but... would you like to try holding her? Just for a few minutes?"
They lift Aurora from the incubator and place her in my arms, and the world narrows to just us.
She's warm and solid and perfect. She nuzzles against my chest, seeking, and I realize she's trying to nurse.
"Let her try," the nurse encourages. "Skin-to-skin contact is good for both of you."
I've never done this before. Never held a baby, never nursed one. But instinct takes over.
Aurora latches immediately, nursing like she's done it a thousand times.
And sitting there in the NICU, holding my daughter for the first time, I make a promise.
"I'm going to keep you safe," I whisper to her. "No matter what it takes. No matter who tries to take you from me. You're mine, Aurora. And I'm yours. Forever."
She nurses until she falls asleep, and even then, I don't want to let her go.
But eventually, the nurse says I need to rest, and they return Aurora to the incubator.
As they wheel me back to my room, I feel something I haven't felt in months.
Hope.
Real, genuine hope that maybe—just maybe—we're going to be okay.
They release me from the hospital three days after Aurora's birth, but she has to stay.
"Just a few more days," Dr. Chen assures me. "We want to make sure she maintains her temperature and weight independently. Standard protocol for premature births."
Even though Aurora is anything but standard.
I hate leaving her. Hate walking out of the hospital without my daughter in my arms. But the nurses promise to call if anything changes, and I can visit anytime.
The Garcias drive me home in silence, sensing I don't want to talk.
When we arrive, the house feels emptier than it should. The nursery is ready, waiting. But the crib is empty.
"She'll be home soon," Carmen says gently. "And then you'll wish for just five minutes of peace."
She's trying to make me feel better, but it doesn't work.
That night, I lie in bed unable to sleep. My body aches from the delivery. My breasts are painfully engorged with milk Aurora isn't here to drink. And my arms feel empty without her weight.
I pump milk using the equipment the hospital provided, storing it in bottles to bring to the NICU tomorrow. It's something. A way to still care for her even from a distance.
Around midnight, my phone buzzes with an email notification.
It's Damon.
‘Sage,
I don't know how to tell you this gently, so I'll just say it: Stella lost her baby.
She went into premature labor yesterday at six months. The baby was stillborn—a boy. The pack is devastated.
Mason is... I've never seen him like this. Completely broken. He's locked himself in his office and won't talk to anyone.
Stella is blaming you. Says you cursed her somehow, that you did something to cause this. It's completely irrational, but she's grief-stricken and looking for someone to blame.
Be careful, Sage. I know you just gave birth yourself. I know you have your own healing to do. But Stella is dangerous when she's hurting, and she knows you're in Vancouver.
How are you? How's your daughter?’
D.’
I stare at the message, trying to process the information.
Stella lost her baby. The same baby she'd been so proud of, so certain would cement her position as Luna.
I should feel victorious. Should feel like karma has caught up with her.
But all I feel is sadness. No matter what Stella did to me, losing a child is agony. I know that better than anyone.
I type out a response.
‘I'm sorry about Stella's loss. No one deserves that pain.
My daughter—Aurora—was born three days ago at six months. She's perfect. Strong. Currently in the NICU but coming home soon.
Tell Mason... tell him I'm sorry for his loss. I know what it's like to lose a child.
And Damon? Be careful around Stella. Grief makes people do irrational things.’
His response comes quickly.
‘Aurora. That's a beautiful name.
I'm glad she's okay. Glad you're okay.
I will be careful. But Sage, I need to warn you: Stella convinced Mason to expand the search for you. They've hired three more investigators. She's convinced that finding you will somehow make her feel better.
You need to disappear completely. No social media, no public records, nothing they can trace.’
I forward the message to Rafael and Carmen the next morning.
We spend the day scrubbing my presence from the internet. Deleting old social media accounts, asking the VSCC to keep my name out of their databases, even having Dr. Chen register Aurora's birth under a pseudonym.
Jane Doe gave birth to Baby Girl Doe. No record of Sage Mitchell or Aurora anywhere official.
It's terrifying how easy it is to erase ourselves.