30. Atticus
ATTICUS
The moment Thalassa stumbles, the floor drops out beneath me.
It’s subtle—just a falter in her step, a shift in her breath—but I see it. I see everything.
Dean catches her first, but I’m already moving before he finishes saying her name. Her face is pale. Her hand is gripping her lower abdomen. Pain, sharp and sudden. I know the look.
I’ve seen it before.
“Something’s wrong,” she whispers.
My heart seizes.
Not again. Not this time. Please.
Dean’s voice goes tight. “Hospital, now.”
Colin’s already grabbing keys, flinging open the office door. I’m at her side, lifting her gently, ignoring the cold dread crawling down my spine. She’s trying to be brave, but she’s trembling. I don’t think she even knows she is.
I carry her to the elevator, bride-style. Every second feels like a countdown.
We don’t wait for the valet. Instead, we race to Colin’s car. He throws the car into gear, Dean in the passenger seat, me in the back with Thalassa lying across my lap, her head cradled in my hand.
“Tell me where it hurts,” I say, keeping my voice calm even as my insides fracture.
“Low. Center. It’s like—cramping, but worse.” Her eyes squeeze shut. “God, it hurts.”
Dean’s calling ahead to the hospital. Colin’s cursing every red light in the city.
And me? I hold her like she’s made of porcelain and pretend I’m not unraveling.
Not again. I cannot do this again. Not her. Not the babies.
I won’t survive it.
We hit traffic near Lenox, and I hear the siren before I see the lights—blue and white flashing behind us. A patrol cruiser.
“Shit,” Colin mutters. “They think we’re fleeing.”
I grab my phone and dial 911.
“Emergency services?—”
“This is Atticus Copeland. We’re en route to Piedmont Medical with a pregnant woman experiencing acute abdominal pain. We are being pursued by law enforcement. Please alert them. We need an escort now. They can cite us later.”
The operator pauses. “Sir, are you currently evading traffic stops?”
“We are transporting a woman who may be losing her pregnancy. Tell the officers that, or get out of our way.”
The operator says something I don’t register. All I care about is the cruiser speeding up beside us. The lights shift position. The cruiser pulls ahead, cutting through traffic, clearing lanes.
An escort. Thank fuck.
The hospital staff is waiting at the emergency entrance when we pull up.
Thalassa is whisked from my arms into the care of two nurses, an OB resident, and someone barking orders I can’t quite catch. Her hand slips from mine as they roll her away, but her eyes meet mine just before the door closes.
I see the fear in them. And I pray—silently, fiercely—that it’s not the last thing I see.
We’re directed to a waiting area. Dean handles the paperwork. Colin paces. I sit down because my knees are threatening to give out.
It’s Serena all over again. The hallway. The silence. The helplessness. The way my breath doesn’t seem to fill my lungs.
But this isn’t then.
And Thalassa is not Serena. She’s stronger than she knows. And these are not her final moments. I refuse to believe they could be.
Not again.
Twenty-two minutes later, the doctor returns. She’s a short woman in teal scrubs with tired eyes and a steady voice. “She’s okay,” she says immediately.
We exhale in unison.
“The pain was acute, but it wasn’t labor. Not a miscarriage. She’s carrying big twins, and sometimes the weight can strain the uterine ligaments, especially after stress or sudden movement. She’s dehydrated. That’s probably what pushed it over the edge.”
I close my eyes. Relief doesn’t come with fanfare. It comes in fragments, with a quiet, shattering collapse of tension. A single breath, finally taken.
“You can see her now,” the doctor adds, softer.
I’m on my feet before the others.
The hospital room is small, sterile, but quiet. A monitor beeps softly beside her, and she’s lying in the bed with an IV drip in one arm, a warm blanket tucked around her waist. Her hair’s a little messy, and she’s still pale, but her lips curve the second she sees me.
My heart nearly stops at the sight of it.
“Hey,” she murmurs, voice still a little rough.
I move to her bedside. The chair is too far, so I stand beside the bed and take her hand, bringing it to my lips.
“You scared me,” I say.
“I scared myself.”
“You’re not allowed to say that until I stop seeing that image—of you going white in the face, of your knees giving out.”
“I’m fine,” she says again. “Big twins, big uterus, small girl. That’s what the doctor said.”
I sit, finally. Just watch her for a second.
“Guess we have to stay on top of our hydration,” Colin teases. But it’s only half a joke. He was petrified too.
“I’ll set timers on both your phones to keep you regulated,” Dean offers.
There are lines on her forehead that weren’t there yesterday. I hate that I couldn’t take the pain from her, the risk. That I still can’t. My voice is quiet. “I thought I lost you.”
Her eyes go soft. “You didn’t.”
“No,” I say, “but I could have.”
There’s so much I want to tell her, but I don’t know how. I’ve carried silence for so long it’s become muscle memory. But now, looking at her—pale and alive, I realize I don’t want to carry it anymore. I open my mouth.
And she beats me to it. “I love you.”
I stare at her and laugh.
She looks surprised at herself. Like the words leapt out before she could catch them. Her eyes widen slightly. “Wait, I didn’t mean to say that. I mean—I did. I do. But also I think I’m a little high on fluids and adrenaline and that weird Jello they brought me?—”
“I love you too,” I say. “I was just about to say it, but then you said it first.”
She stops talking. Her lips part, but nothing comes out. “Atticus.”
“I haven’t said that to anyone since Serena,” I admit. “I didn’t think I’d ever say it again.”
“Serena?” she asks.
Hell. I never told her. Neither did my brothers. “My wife. She died due to complications from childbirth. Bled out.”
“Oh,” the word comes out like a breath she’d been holding. “You must have thought… Oh, Tic, I’m so sorry. This must have scared the hell out of you.”
I kiss her forehead. “Yes. But I’m better now that you’re better.”
“How long ago?”
Grief blurs time. But not enough not to feel it. “Just over ten years ago.”
She searches my face, her expression unreadable at first. Then something eases in her. “You haven’t said ‘I love you’ in ten years? You’ve been alone that long?”
“There’ve been others I dated. It was never serious. So, no. Not until now.”
She smiles. “So you’re saying…I’m worth breaking your emotional constipation?”
I laugh. Loudly. The kind that feels like it lifts something from my chest.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
She grins. “I knew I was special.”
Colin makes a small “aww” sound and immediately ducks as Thalassa throws a tissue box at him.
“I’m lying here like a preggo hospital burrito,” she says, “and you guys are all just enjoying the view?”
“Beautiful burrito,” Dean says, moving to kiss her forehead. “I love you too.”
“Me three,” Colin says, stealing a corner of the bed to sit on.
I glance at them, at her, at the tangle of hands and crumpled linens and soft laughter in this too-bright room.
This is mine. This is ours . It doesn’t feel complicated right now. It feels right.
The nurse brings in Thalassa’s discharge paperwork two hours later, along with a pamphlet about “hydration and pregnancy discomfort” and a pair of those disposable grippy socks that make her grimace.
“I look like a Muppet,” she mutters, dangling one foot in the air.
Colin grins. “A sexy Muppet.”
Dean makes a sound like he’s about to choke on his bottled water.
Thalassa shakes her head and rubs her eyes. “I can’t believe this is my life.”
“Neither can we,” Dean murmurs.
“You’re a student sugar baby,” Colin adds. “And we’re three emotionally stunted billionaires with control issues.”
“We’re a walking ethics debate,” I offer.
She lifts both hands in mock surrender. “And yet, somehow, this…works.”
It does. I feel it down to my bones. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to relax. Not entirely.
The hospital scare lit up a warning light in the back of my mind—one I didn’t know I still had. The thought of her being alone when something like this happens again is…unacceptable.
So I say it. “We want you at the mansion.”
She blinks. “Like…tonight?”
Dean nods. “Starting now. Until the babies come. And probably after that.”
“We have the space,” Colin adds. “We have a chef, a driver, and we can arrange an on-call nurse. You’ll be safe. We’ll be there.”
“It’s not just about safety,” I say quietly. “It’s about belonging.”
She looks at each of us in turn. Then leans back in the bed, clearly stalling. “I mean…it would make the stalking easier.”
Colin snorts.
I freeze. Because I hear the edge in her voice—not angry, not teasing. Testing. “I haven’t stalked you.”
The room goes quiet. Dean and Colin both glance at me.
Thalassa tilts her head. “Their expressions say otherwise.”
I clear my throat. “Not in the way you think.”
She arches a brow. “So there was a way?”
Damn it.
I run a hand down my face. “I might have…visited some scientists in Puerto Rico.”
Dean straightens. Colin’s eyebrows shoot up.
Thalassa just blinks. “What?”
I hold up both hands. “I didn’t interfere. I was curious about the research. About your parents’ work. I spoke to them. As a donor.”
“Oh my god.”
“I didn’t use your name. I didn’t bring up the pregnancy. They don’t know who we are to each other. I just…wanted to understand.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then, slowly, she exhales. “That’s weird, Tic.”
“Agreed.”
“But,” she continues, “all the other times you guys have stalked me, it’s worked out, and I’m too tired not to be practical these days.”
Colin cackles. Dean chuckles. I sigh and press a hand to my temple.
She grins at me. “I’m saying yes. I’ll move in.”
I look at her, really look at her—tired but radiant, aching but unbroken. I nod. “Then I’ll tell you everything. One day.”
She leans her head on my shoulder. “You’d better.”
And for the first time since Serena died, I let myself believe this might not end in grief.
It begins with love.