Chapter 25
CASSANDRA
Winter light leaks through a frosted pane. A heart monitor keeps time. The IV pump ticks like a metronome.
I do a body check. Bandage at my forearm is clean and rewrapped, tugging a little when I flex. BP cuff loosening with a sigh. Pulse-ox on my fingertip. Mouth dry.
My first thought is Clara. Second, Damien. Third, what the hell just happened?
Two attacks in two days.
A nurse slips in, calm and competent, with the kind of presence that relaxes you right away.
“Good morning,” she says, checking the screens with a quick glance. “And Merry Christmas. You came in with nausea and dizziness. Borderline low blood pressure. Likely a mix of an adrenaline crash, mild dehydration, and a pain response from that arm.”
She checks my temp, notes the number. “Vitals look good. Fluids are running. Labs have been sent. Try sitting up slowly.”
I do as she asks. The room spins a little, then settles.
“How do you feel?”
“Not bad.”
She adjusts my pillows. “Doctor will be in in a minute.”
As promised, he strolls in with a tablet under one arm. He confirms my name and birth date, asks me to rate the ache in my arm, and listens to my lungs and heart.
“Strong and clear,” he says, which feels like a compliment I’ll gladly take.
“Your labs came back.” A pause I don’t like.
“What is it?”
The doctor sits at eye level, hands relaxed. “You’re pregnant,” he says.
“What?”
“Your blood test is positive for HCG,” he says. “Based on the level, you’re likely about three weeks post-conception—very early.”
A stunned oh settles on the tip of my tongue. Relief and terror race each other down my spine and tie in a knot somewhere under my ribs.
“By standard counting, that’s about five weeks pregnant. Too early to see much on ultrasound, but enough to know.”
“You’re sure?” It comes out small. I hate small, but here we are.
“Blood tests at this level are very reliable,” he says. “We’ll confirm with a repeat in forty-eight to seventy-two hours and schedule an ultrasound in about a week.”
A week feels like forever.
“Okay,” is all I can manage.
“Hydrate. Eat. Start a prenatal vitamin with folic acid. Avoid alcohol and NSAIDs. Rest where you can.” He glances at my arm. “Topical antibiotic for the wound is fine. If we need oral antibiotics, we’ll pick a pregnancy-safe one. Your tetanus is current, so that’s good.”
I continue to stare at him like an idiot while my brain tries to catch up to what he just said.
“Do you have any questions?” he asks.
A thousand. “If I don’t want anyone to know yet...” I drift off, not having the energy to finish the sentence.
“You control your information,” he says. “No one knows anything unless you decide to tell them.”
“Thank you.”
He stands and gathers his tablet. “We’ll order a repeat HCG for two days from now, place a referral to OB, and keep you until you’ve finished that IV and can walk without dizziness. If the redness at your wound spreads, come back for a recheck.”
Before he reaches the door, I stop him. “My sister, Clara Hewitt. I was coming to visit her.”
“I’ll look into it,” he says and slips out.
Thoughts spin inside my head: the mirror room, the ribbon, his voice at my ear, the SUV, Clara’s heart, and now a tiny bean in my belly that could be a future. Our future.
He’ll want to know, but I need to know where I stand first. His world is dangerous. Babies and danger are a horrible combination.
The nurse comes back with a tray of Saltines and ginger tea. She sets it down and says, “Doctor checked. Your sister’s resting, vitals are good.”
“Can I see her?” I ask.
“I think we can work something out,” she says with a conspiratorial smile. “Short visit. Quiet.”
There’s a knock at the door, and Alex steps in, clocking everything in the room on reflex.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Better,” I say. “Dehydration, stress. Nothing crazy.” Not exactly a lie.
Alex nods, not pushing. “Damien is en route.”
The words loosen something I didn’t know was clenching. “Okay.”
“Security has the alley and the ER covered,” he goes on. “The sedan from this morning is being processed. We’ve pulled footage. We’ll know more soon.”
“Right.” My jaw sets. Two attacks in two days is a pattern, not a coincidence. The question I don’t ask out loud is How many more shots until one lands?