Chapter 41
41
ADRIAN
As I settle back into my chair in the sleek meeting room at Fulton, the glass and steel table gleams under the soft, ambient lighting, complementing the panoramic view of the New York skyline.
I can’t suppress the surge of satisfaction that courses through me.
I did it.
Across the table, the NY police pension fund manager regards me with a stern yet engaged expression, clearly impressed by my pitch. Securing Fulton the management of five billion in assets will be our most significant deal ever. I can already see Dominic, my boss, shaking my hand as he finally gives me that promotion I’ve been chasing.
Our risk manager takes the floor next, launching into a droning spiel about volatility management and safeguards.
My attention drifts to the glass wall behind the investors, where my secretary is frantically trying to catch my eye. I subtly wave her off, not wanting to disrupt the meeting’s flow. But she persists, pressing a sheet of paper to the wall. Big black letters jump out at me:
Rowena is in labor
My heart seizes in my chest, the words blurring before my eyes. I blink, and Wendy adds a second page:
Sam took her to the hospital
In one swift motion, I shut my laptop and rise to my feet, cutting the risk manager off mid-sentence. The room falls eerily quiet, all eyes fixed on me.
“I apologize, but I have to leave. My wife has just gone into labor,” I announce, my voice sounding distant to my ears.
Shocked faces stare back at me—my colleagues, Dominic, the investors. I turn to my head of trading. “Sarah, can you please finish the presentation for me? I need to go.”
She nods, surprise and understanding mingling in her eyes.
I don’t wait for anyone else to respond. I’m out the door in seconds, jaw set as I stride down the corridor. My secretary scurries behind me in her heels, struggling to keep pace.
“Call me a car,” I instruct her, jabbing the elevator button impatiently.
“I already did, Mr. West. It’s waiting for you downstairs.”
I nod my appreciation, stepping into the elevator as soon as the doors slide open. The descent seems to take forever, my foot tapping an anxious rhythm on the floor.
I burst through the lobby doors and into the waiting car. “Clinlada, as fast as you can,” I urge the driver.
As we weave through the New York traffic, my mind races faster than the passing city lights. Is Rowena okay? Is the baby? It’s too soon. Why didn’t she call me herself?
I check my phone and find her frantic voicemail. Damn it. I vow to never turn it off ever again, no matter how important the meeting.
The journey feels interminable, each red light a personal affront. When we pull up at the clinic, I’m out of the car before it fully stops, throwing a hasty, “Thanks,” over my shoulder.
I dash through the glass doors, nearly colliding with a startled nurse. I beeline for the reception desk, my hands gripping the edge.
“Where is my wife?” I demand, almost shouting.
The receptionist blinks up at me, probably taken aback by my intensity. “Sir, I need a bit more information. What’s your wife’s full name?”
I run a hand through my hair, ignoring the vise squeezing my throat to say, “Rowena. Rowena Taylor or West.”
She types the info into her computer, each click of the keyboard grating on my overtaxed synapses. It’s forever before the receptionist looks up with a smile.
“Your wife is in the delivery room. Please follow me, we’ll get you scrubbed up and ready to go.”
Relief floods through me as I trail her down the sterile hallway. I’m led to a small bathroom where I hastily wash my hands and don the blue protective gown, cap, and shoe covers.
Then a nurse ushers me into the delivery room. The bright fluorescent lights momentarily blind me as the distinct aroma of disinfectant hits my nostrils. I blink rapidly, taking in the ambience, carefully furnished for comfort, yet unmistakably clinical in essence—a lilac yoga ball, a plush recliner tucked in the corner, the walls painted a soothing sage green.
And there, at the center of it all, lies Rowena on the hospital bed. Tendrils of hair cling to her flushed, glistening face. She looks utterly spent, yet somehow she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. The midwife stands at the foot of the bed, her voice a soothing murmur of encouragement I can’t quite make out.
Rowena’s weary eyes find mine and instantly brighten, relief visibly washing over her. “You made it,” she gasps, a tired but genuine smile gracing her lips.
“Of course I did,” I reply, stumbling over the words, the air in my lungs thicker than normal.
I move swiftly to her side and reach for her hand. She grasps it like a lifeline, her grip startlingly strong for someone who’s been through the wringer.
I press a kiss to her damp forehead, breathing her in. Until her face contracts in a painful wince and in a panic, I ask the midwife how I can help.
“Rub her shoulders; human touch is healing.”
I do everything I’m told as hours blur together in a haze of contractions and medical jargon. The steady beep of the monitors and the reassuring chatter of the nurses create a strange symphony that fills the room. Through it all, I stay glued to Rowena’s side, my hands on her, rubbing, kneading, soothing.
I stroke her hair, whispering words of love and encouragement, my heart feeling like it might burst with a heady cocktail of anticipation and apprehension. “You’re doing amazing, Sunshine. Just a little longer.”
She nods, her breath coming in short, focused puffs. The determination in her eyes holds me spellbound.
Finally, the moment arrives. The midwife looks up with a smile. “Alright, Rowena, it’s time to push. On the next contraction, give it everything you’ve got. ”
Rowena bears down, a warrior goddess in a hospital gown, showing a strength I never knew a human could possess.
“Push, two… three… four… five…”
She collapses back against the pillows, breath heaving, only to gather herself and go again. And again. Each time, I’m in awe of her, of the raw power of her body, of her indomitable spirit.
After what feels like a lifetime compressed into mere minutes, a high, thin cry pierces the air. “It’s a girl!” the midwife announces, her voice bright with joy.
Tears blur my vision. I blink them away, desperate not to miss a single second. The nurse places a tiny, writhing bundle on Rowena’s chest, a shock of dark hair stark against the reddened skin.
Rowena cradles her daughter, wonder and love transforming her exhausted face into something ethereal, something divine. Tears trace silvery paths down her cheeks, but her smile… Fuck, her smile could light the world.
I lean down, pressing my lips to her sweaty forehead. “She’s perfect.” My voice comes out raw. “You’re perfect.”
Rowena nods, words beyond her, gaze locked on the little miracle in her arms.
We sit like that, suspended in a bubble of pure happiness for the longest time.
Eventually, Rowena looks up at me, her eyes shining with exhaustion and bliss. “I haven’t chosen a name,” she murmurs, her voice soft, almost reverent.
I smile, awed by the miracle her daughter is—those impossibly tiny fingers, that button nose, those rosebud lips. “How about Soleil?” I suggest, the name coming to me in a flash of inspiration. “It means sun in French. She’s a little sunshine, just like her mom. ”
Rowena’s face lights up, her smile brighter than any star. “Soleil.” She repeats the name as if trying it on for size. “It’s perfect.”