Chapter 10
ELENA
Seven months had passed in a blur.
Not peacefully. Not easily.
But carefully.
Every week had been structured around doctor appointments, specialist consultations, ultrasound scans, and constant monitoring under Petros’s relentless supervision.
He had built a medical fortress around me.
The elite obstetric team he hired rotated shifts so someone was always available.
High-risk pregnancy specialists reviewed every lab result.
A neonatal team was on standby months before delivery.
Ultrasounds were done regularly — tracking growth, heart rate, placenta positioning.
Blood pressure monitored daily.
Bloodwork drawn often.
They had prepared for complications.
Prepared for emergencies.
Prepared for anything.
A cesarean section had always been offered as the safest option — controlled, predictable, medically managed.
But I refused.
I wanted to experience this birth naturally.
Not because I rejected modern medicine.
But because this time —
I wanted to feel the full weight of bringing life into the world without surgical intervention.
I wanted to take back something that had once been stolen from me.
My body.
My process.
My birth.
After everything that had happened before — I needed this moment to belong to me.
Now I lay in the brightly lit labor room of the private hospital.
The space was sterile.
Cold.
Functional.
White walls.
Metal equipment.
Monitors humming quietly.
The faint scent of antiseptic mixed with the metallic smell of medical tools.
It should have felt clinical.
Instead, it felt sacred.
My skin burned with heat despite the cool air.
Sweat collected at my temples and slid down the sides of my face.
My hospital gown clung to my body.
Each contraction tightened around my abdomen like an iron band squeezing tighter and tighter.
Breathing became harder.
Shorter.
More instinctive than controlled.
A nurse stood to my left — eyes focused on the fetal monitor beside me.
The machine beeped steadily.
Strong heartbeat.
Reassuring rhythm.
Another nurse stood on my right, holding my hand with calm professionalism — grounding me when pain threatened to pull me under.
Between my legs — beneath the sterile blue drape — the senior midwife positioned herself carefully.
Gloved hands ready.
Eyes focused.
Confident.
“You’re doing beautifully, Elena,” she said firmly but warmly.
I wanted to laugh at the irony.
Beautiful wasn’t how I felt.
Broken.
Exposed.
Powerful.
Terrified.
“The baby’s head is right there — crowning already.”
My breath caught.
Already?
“Just breathe with me.”
She demonstrated slowly.
“In through your nose.”
I inhaled shakily.
“Out through your mouth.”
I obeyed.
“Good. When the next contraction comes, you’re going to feel the urge to push. Listen to your body.”
She adjusted slightly.
“Bear down like you’re having the biggest bowel movement of your life.”
The analogy would’ve made me laugh under different circumstances.
“Long pushes.”
“Strong pushes.”
“Chin to chest.”
“Curl around your baby.”
I nodded weakly.
My fingers clenched the side rails of the hospital bed.
My knuckles turned white from the pressure.
Then—
It hit.
A contraction.
Sudden.
Powerful.
It tightened deep inside me and radiated downward like explosive pressure building to release.
The midwife leaned closer.
“Here it comes... deep breath in...”
I inhaled.
“Hold it...”
I held.
“Push! One... two... three... keep going!”
I groaned.
Low.
Primal.
Every muscle in my body engaged.
I pushed with everything I had.
It wasn’t just physical effort.
It was emotion.
It was anger.
It was grief.
It was hope.
It was survival.
“Push into your bottom!” the nurse encouraged.
“Don’t hold back!”
I pushed harder.
My body remembered what to do.
Instinct took over.
Another wave of pressure built.
“Again!” the nurse urged.
“Another big one!”
I sucked in air quickly between pushes — panting like she had instructed.
Short breaths.
Like blowing out candles.
Then I pushed again.
Three pushes per contraction.
Exactly like they trained me.
Each one moved the baby lower.
Each one stretched me wider.
The burning sensation intensified.
The infamous “ring of fire”.
Sharp.
Unmistakable.
Sweat stung my eyes.
My legs trembled in the stirrups.
I felt exposed.
Vulnerable.
But powerful.
“Rest now,” the midwife said gently during the short break.
“Breathe. Let your body recover.”
I collapsed back slightly against the pillows — chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Next contraction,” she continued softly, “we get her out.”
Her.
My heart skipped.
A girl?
The word echoed in my mind.
I hadn’t asked.
I hadn’t allowed myself to assume.
But hearing it confirmed made something inside me crack open.
The next surge hit harder than the previous ones.
My body reacted automatically.
“Push, Elena!”
I grabbed the rails again.
Held my breath.
And pushed.
“Hold it — ten seconds!”
“Nine!”
“Eight!”
“Keep bearing down!”
I screamed.
Not from pain alone.
From power.
From release.
From years of fear collapsing into this moment.
I curled forward — forcing my body to cooperate.
I felt it.
The head fully emerged.
A strange sensation of pressure shifting.
Rotating.
Then —
One final push.
Everything inside me tightened.
I screamed through it.
And with a sudden wet rush —
Her body slid free.
Silence.
For half a second.
No sound.
No cry.
No immediate movement.
My heart dropped violently.
The room tilted.
My lungs stopped working.
Not again.
No.
My brain flashed instantly to memory.
Cold hospital room.
Still body.
Towel wrapped around tiny limbs.
The unbearable silence after delivery.
The nurse had barely lifted her before —
No cry.
My eyes locked on the tiny body as the midwife lifted her carefully.
She was slick.
Blue-tinged.
Motionless.
Placed immediately onto the warming table.
My throat tightened.
“Please...” I whispered.
“Please cry...”
The seconds stretched.
Too long. Too quiet.
My chest tightened in panic.
The nightmare was repeating itself.
My baby lay there — small, fragile, and still.
The medical team moved quickly.
The neonatal nurse stepped in.
Stimulation.
Suction.
Gentle rubbing.
Oxygen mask prepared.
“Come on, sweetheart,” the nurse murmured urgently.
“Breathe.”
My hands trembled.
Tears blurred my vision.
I couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
“Is she...?”
My voice cracked apart.
The words barely left my throat.
Hot tears streamed down my face — blurring my vision so badly I could hardly see the tiny body on the warming table.
The midwife didn’t answer immediately.
She worked.
Fast.
Focused.
She flipped the baby gently onto her side and began rubbing her back firmly with a warm sterile blanket.
“Come on, little one,” she murmured under her breath again.
“Breathe for us.”
Another nurse leaned in and carefully suctioned the baby’s mouth and nose, clearing fluid from her tiny airway.
The seconds stretched.
Slow.
Cruel.
Each passing moment felt like a knife twisting inside my chest.
My fingers trembled uselessly at my sides.
“Please,” I whispered.
“Please let her be okay.”
The room seemed to hold its breath with me.
Then —
A sound.
Thin.
Small.
Defiant.
A cry.
It started as a fragile squeak — almost like a protest — and then strengthened.
Her tiny chest jerked.
Her arms flailed.
Her legs kicked weakly in response to stimulation.
Color flooded back into her skin — pink replacing the blue tint that had terrified me seconds ago.
The nurses’ tense expressions transformed instantly.
Relief washed over them.
Smiles broke through.
“There she is!” the midwife laughed softly.
“Strong lungs on this one.”
My knees nearly gave out.
“Oh my God...”
My breath came out in a broken sob.
“Let me see her. Please.”
“It’s a girl,” the midwife confirmed.
She wrapped my daughter quickly in a warm, soft blanket — then walked toward me carefully.
“Hold her.”
My arms lifted automatically.
She placed the baby onto my chest.
Skin to skin.
The moment her weight settled against me —
Everything shattered.
She was warm.
Alive.
Wriggling.
Real.
Her tiny chest rose and fell rapidly against my heartbeat.
Her cries slowly softened into small hiccupping whimpers as she instinctively searched for warmth.
For comfort.
For me.
I wrapped my arms around her immediately — holding her like the most precious thing in existence.
Because she was.
She smelled like life.
A mixture of newborn sweetness, amniotic fluid, and something uniquely hers.
My trembling fingers traced her face.
The delicate button nose.
The soft rosebud mouth.
Her eyelashes — dark and clumped with fluid — fluttered slightly as she adjusted to the light.
Her skin was impossibly smooth.
Fragile.
Perfect.
Tears poured freely now — no restraint left.
They soaked into the blanket wrapped around her.
She was here.
She was mine.
She was breathing.
Whole.
Unbroken.
I pressed my lips gently to her forehead.
“I’ve got you, baby,” I whispered against her skin.
“I’ve got you.”
My voice cracked again.
“You’re safe.”
The nurses gave us space.
The golden hour.
That sacred first hour where mother and child bond without interruption.
She began rooting against my chest — tiny mouth searching.
Her small hand lifted blindly and suddenly wrapped around my finger.
Her grip surprised me.
Stronger than expected.
Instinct.
Survival.
Connection.
I laughed through tears.
“You’re already stubborn,” I murmured.
“Just like... someone.”
I didn’t say his name.
I didn’t need to.
In that moment, the world narrowed to just the two of us.
Her heartbeat.
Mine.
The soft sounds she made.
The gentle rhythm of her breathing.
Years of grief — the prison memories — the loss of my first child — all of it felt distant now.
Not erased.
But momentarily quiet.
Too soon, the senior nurse approached us gently.
“We need to take her for a quick bath.”
I tightened my hold instinctively.
My arms pulled her closer.