Chapter 23 His Fear

Chapter 23 His Fear


Chapter 23 — Lucien’s POV

I had never been afraid of silence before.

But that night, the silence felt wrong. Heavy. Wrong in a way that settled over my chest and refused to leave. It pressed into my lungs, into my thoughts, into my skin. The house around me felt too still, like it was holding its breath.

Then my phone rang. Sharp. Sudden. Insistent. Cutting through the quiet like a knife. I didn’t even think—I saw the number, recognized the hospital, and my heart skipped violently.

I snatched the phone up, almost dropping it in my panic.

“Sir,” the voice on the other end was rushed, tense, like someone running on the edge of collapse. “Madam Susan… she’s in labor.”

For a moment, the world froze.

“In labor?” My voice was low, strained, almost unrecognizable even to myself. “When?”

“Earlier tonight, sir. She was brought in a few hours ago. She’s already… in the delivery room.”

Earlier. Already.

The words hit harder than any physical blow. I could feel my chest tighten, my stomach knot, my hands go clammy. My head buzzed with disbelief.

I gritted my teeth. “I’m coming,” I said, already moving. There was no time to ask more, no time to process. I ended the call abruptly, grabbed my coat, and moved faster than I had in years—my hands trembling, my mind racing.

The car was waiting. I barely noticed the driver as I barked, “Hospital. Now.”

The streets blurred past, red and yellow lights smeared into streaks. Every second dragged endlessly. My chest felt like it was being crushed by something heavier than iron.

Susan… alone.

The thought burned hotter than anything I had felt before. Why hadn’t she called me?

And then it hit me like a blow:

Because I never answered.

Because I hung up.

Because I ignored her.

Because I made her feel she had no right to need me.

I closed my eyes for a second, seeing her pale, exhausted face, her lips pressed together, her eyes tired but determined. All those times she endured quietly… I had failed.

My jaw clenched until my teeth hurt. I stared out the window at my reflection in the glass. Cold. Controlled. Powerful. And yet, utterly useless.

The car skidded to a stop outside the hospital. I didn’t wait. I opened the door and ran, my shoes clacking against the pavement. Every step felt like it should be faster, but gravity seemed to hold me back.

Inside, the hallways were too bright, the smell of antiseptic sharp and acrid. I barely registered the nurses, the staff, the other patients. My entire world had shrunk to one thought: Susan.

“Delivery room,” I demanded at the front desk.

The nurse looked at me, her eyes wary. “You’re… the husband?”

I nodded sharply. My throat went dry. “Yes. She’s in labor. Let me through.”

“She’s already inside,” the nurse said gently. “You’ll have to wait outside. Protocol.”

Wait.

I hated that word. Every fiber of me screamed. Wait. I hated it with a depth I had never known.

I moved to the corridor outside the delivery rooms. Every light felt too bright. Every sound—the clatter of shoes, the muffled voices, the distant beeping of machines—cut through me like knives.

Then I heard it.

Her voice.

A cry.

Not a shout. Not a dramatic wail. But a sound so raw, so broken, so painfully real that it pierced straight through me.

Susan.

She was crying. Alone. Enduring it alone.

I froze.

Her pain, her endurance, the sheer weight of it, pressed on me harder than anything I had ever faced.

Step by step, the truth hammered itself into my chest.

She didn’t call me because she didn’t trust me to come.

She didn’t call me because she had learned I would ignore her.

She didn’t call me because she had known, deep down, that I had let her down countless times before.

I pressed my hands to the wall, feeling the cold bite through my coat. My heart hammered so hard I was sure she could hear it. Every cry that slipped through the door made me sick with guilt, every sound a reminder of my failures.

I thought of the nights she had been alone.

Of the hunger she had hidden.

Of the exhaustion, the stress, the fear she carried quietly.

And now this.

She was bringing my child into the world without me.

I could not breathe.

Minutes passed. Or hours. I couldn’t tell. Every opening of a door made me tense, every movement of the staff made my stomach twist with dread.

I kept imagining her face. Pale. Determined. Silent. Brave in ways I had never been. And I had been the one to fail her.

“I did this,” I whispered under my breath, my voice cracking. No one heard me.

Finally, the door opened.

A doctor stepped out, his face unreadable but grave. I straightened immediately, my hands clenching.

“How is she?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. “How’s… my wife?”

The doctor hesitated, as if measuring each word. “We had complications.”

The words hit me like a punch to the stomach.

“What do you mean?” I demanded, my voice suddenly brittle, unsteady. My chest felt tight, my throat raw.

The doctor didn’t answer right away. The pause stretched, unbearable.

Fear wrapped itself around my heart completely, like ice. I could not move. I could not think. For the first time, I understood the real weight of being late.

And for the first time, I realized how fragile control could be. How little power I had when it mattered most.

I had let her face pain alone. I had let her face the world alone.

And now… I might have failed her and my child forever.