Chapter 113: Growing Pains

The room in the hospital had a scent of antiseptic, warm milk, and subtle baby powder. The blanket around Valentina Soledad was striped with light from the blinds. The tiny girl lay in her isolette, chest rising and falling in perfect, stubborn rhythm. Three pounds, four ounces now—each gram a quiet triumph.

Maritza sat in the rocking chair beside the isolette, one hand through the porthole, letting Valentina’s minuscule fingers wrap around her pinky. The baby’s grip was surprisingly strong. Maritza smiled through the ache in her chest.

Cole leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching them both with that steady, quiet intensity that still made her heart stutter after all this time.

“You’re staring,” she said without looking up.

“Can’t help it,” he murmured. “You look like you belong here.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Like a tired, hormonal mess?”

“Like a mother.”

The word landed soft but heavy. Maritza’s throat tightened. She blinked hard, then returned her gaze to Valentina.

Cole crossed the room in three strides and crouched beside her chair. He rested one hand on her knee, the other gently covering the hand that held Valentina’s.

“She’s got your fight,” he said. “Look at that grip.”

Maritza laughed, watery. “Isabella’s fight, maybe. Or Soledad’s. This family doesn’t do weak.”

Cole’s thumb traced slow circles on her knee. “She’s got our stubbornness too. All three of you.”

Maritza’s free hand drifted to her own belly—rounder now, thirty-six weeks tomorrow. The baby kicked in response, a sharp jab under her ribs.

“See?” Cole grinned. “He’s already arguing with his cousin.”

They stayed like that for a long moment—two adults, two tiny heartbeats, one fragile new life between them.

The door opened softly. Isabella slipped in, still pale but upright, IV pole trailing behind her like a reluctant chaperone. She wore a hospital gown and a robe that had once been silk but now looked rumpled and human.

“Room for one more?” she asked, voice still hoarse from the breathing tube.

Maritza stood immediately, offering the chair. Isabella sank into it with a small, grateful sigh.

Isabella reached through the other porthole. Valentina’s fingers found her grandmother’s immediately.

“Hello, pequeña guerrera,” Isabella whispered. “You’re already breaking records.”

Cole stepped back to give them space, but Isabella caught his wrist.

“Stay,” she said. “You’re family now. No more hovering in doorways.”

He nodded once, moving to stand behind Maritza, arms loose around her waist.

For the first time since the night of the monastery, the three of them—mother, daughter, almost-son-in-law—stood together without secrets hanging between them.

Isabella looked up at Maritza. “I’m sorry. For everything. The lies. The choices. The danger I brought to your door.”

Maritza swallowed. “You were trying to save Elena. To save a child you didn’t even know was yours.”

“I was trying to fix my mother’s sins,” Isabella said quietly. “And I almost lost everything.”

Maritza reached down, covering Isabella’s hand on the isolette. “You didn’t. She’s here. You’re here. We’re all here.”

Isabella’s eyes filled. She didn’t try to hide the tears.

Cole cleared his throat. “Doctor said you can hold her soon. Skin-to-skin. They’re weaning her off the ventilator tomorrow.”

Isabella’s breath hitched. “Really?”

“Really.”

The room was quiet except for the soft beeps and the whisper of air conditioning. Outside, Guadalajara hummed with traffic and life.

Maritza broke the silence. “I’ve been thinking about names.”

Isabella looked up, curious.

“For him.” Maritza touched her belly. “I want something strong. Something that means fighter.”

Cole’s arms tightened slightly around her. “Like Valentina.”

“Exactly like Valentina.”

Isabella smiled—small, exhausted, but real. “You’ll choose well. You always have.”

Later that afternoon, the entire family descended on the private wing like a small, loud hurricane. Soledad arrived first, cane tapping, carrying a tiny blanket knitted by her own hands—blue agave flowers embroidered in silver thread.

Freya brought a stuffed wolf (because “every de León needs a protector”). Diego carried a miniature sombrero. Lorena had tamales. The twins toddled in holding a drawing of what might have been a baby or a very angry potato.

The NICU nurses looked overwhelmed but amused.

When visiting hours ended, Cole and Maritza slipped away to the rooftop garden. The city spread below them, lights just beginning to flicker on.

Cole pulled her close, hands splayed over her belly.

“You okay?” he asked.

Maritza leaned into him. “Terrified. Grateful. Exhausted. All at once.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Same.”

She turned in his arms. “I want this to be the last crisis for a while.”

“Me too.”

“I want mornings with coffee and no emergency texts. Dinners that don’t involve strategy. I want to be nauseous from pregnancy hormones, not adrenaline.”

Cole smiled against her hair. “You’ll get it. I promise.”

She looked up at him. “And when he comes?”

“I’ll be there. Holding your hand. Telling you you’re the strongest woman I know. And then I’ll probably cry like a baby when I hold him.”

Maritza laughed softly. “You already cry when you see Valentina.”

They stood there as the city lights bloomed below them, two people who had fought through fire and secrets and almost lost everything—and found something stronger on the other side. Downstairs, a new de León breathed on her own for the first time without help.

“Cole…”

“Yes, Ritz?” His green eyes met hers, steady and dark in the rooftop glow, the same eyes that had found her across a crowded club years ago and never looked away since.

Maritza’s breath caught. The night air was cool against her skin, but heat pooled low in her belly—familiar, insistent, and growing sharper with every week that passed. Thirty-six weeks tomorrow. Her body felt heavy, full, alive in ways she hadn’t expected. And right now, with Cole looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered in the entire glittering city, she wanted.

She stepped closer, pressing herself against him, hands sliding up his chest. “I need you,” she whispered, voice rough. “Right now.”

Cole’s pupils dilated instantly. His hands found her hips, thumbs brushing the underside of her swollen breasts through the thin sweater. “Here?” he asked, voice already gravel-low. “On a hospital rooftop?”

She tilted her head, lips brushing his jaw. “There’s a maintenance door. No cameras. No one comes up here at night.”

He groaned softly, the sound vibrating through her. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“No,” she murmured, nipping his earlobe. “I’m trying to remind you I’m still very much alive.”