Chapter 10
Lucas
The weeks before the launch blurred into a single, endless circuit.
Every day started before dawn, every night ended with my head on a pillow already saturated with dread.
Bella’s pregnancy was a high-wire act—every week she stayed pregnant was a statistical anomaly, every day a victory with no margin for error.
The doctor said we’d made it farther than anyone expected.
The doctor also said not to count on anything.
The launch was scheduled for the third week of April: a single night in New York, all hands on deck, press and investors and the entire Ashford board waiting to see if my year of life sacrifice would pay off.
I told Bella I would stay home, that I could delegate, but the truth was everyone expected me to close the deal in person. She knew it, too.
Two days before my flight, Bella started having contractions. Not Braxton-Hicks, but the real thing, time-stamped on her phone, each one sharper than the last. She called me into the bedroom, beads of sweat on her forehead, the tight lines of pain cutting through her composure.
“I don’t want you to go,” she said, voice thin as paper.
I sat beside her, rubbed her back the way the nurse had shown me. “You’re thirty-four weeks. It’s just your body practicing.”
She shook her head. “Please.”
The word hung there, naked.
I promised her I’d call the doctor. I promised her I’d have my phone on at all times, that I’d take the company jet home at the first sign of trouble. She was the only thing that mattered, I said, and I said it well enough to almost believe myself.
The night before I left, we lay side-by-side in bed, not touching. Bella watched the ceiling, counting the seconds between contractions. I watched the soft light of her phone reflecting in her eyes, the way she blinked too often, as if she was rehearsing how to be brave in front of a jury.
“You’ll come back if I need you,” she said.
“Immediately.”
She nodded, as if that settled it. But I could feel the distance growing between us, a black hole pulling at every shared moment, threatening to swallow them all.
The launch was held in a ballroom the size of a football field, decked out in corporate blue and gold, banners trailing like the standards of a conquering army.
The board hovered at the edges, their attention split between the presentation and the bar.
Investors in dark suits orbited the open floor, speaking in the code of people who’d never risked anything but money.
Victoria was there, immaculate in a black suit and heels, her hair pulled back so tight it looked painful. She saw me arrive, nodded once, and then disappeared into the crowd.
The event itself went off without a hitch. The numbers were right, the pitch was tight, and the applause was both mandatory and sincere. I delivered my lines by muscle memory, smiled for the cameras, shook hands with men who’d spent years betting against me.
Afterward, I found Victoria leaning against a glass wall, looking out at the city as if she owned it.
“We did it,” I said, voice flat.
She glanced at me, eyes unreadable. “Congratulations, Lucas. You just made a lot of people very rich.”
I tried to joke, “Including you,” but the words died in my throat.
She held my gaze for a long time. “Do you want to say goodbye?”
The question was a trap, and I walked into it willingly.
We took the elevator to her room in silence. The air between us was thick with unsaid things—the months of denial, the fleeting moments of vulnerability, the mutual understanding that we’d ruined something essential.
Her hotel suite was on the forty-fourth floor, a view of Manhattan glittering in the dark. She poured us both a drink, handed mine over without touching my hand. We stood by the window, not quite side by side, not quite apart.
“This was never going to end well,” I said.
She laughed, dry. “Nothing good ever does.”
I finished my drink too fast. She watched me over the rim of her glass.
“You know what I’ll miss?” she said.
I shook my head.
“Being seen,” she said. “You’re the only one who ever bothered.”
I didn’t say anything. The only thing I could offer her was honesty, and even that was suspect.
She set her drink down. “One last time?”
I wanted to say no. But I was already pulling her in.
This time was different. Slower. Not desperate, but deliberate, as if both of us wanted to memorize every scar and edge.
We made our way to the bed, leaving a trail of clothing in our wake.
She traced my chest with her fingernails, left marks that would take days to fade.
I kissed her neck, her jaw, her mouth, all the places where regret lived.
Afterward, she lay with her head on my shoulder in bed, her hair damp against my skin.
“I hope you’re a better father than you were a husband,” she said, not unkind.
I stared at the ceiling, at the shapes made by passing headlights. “Me too.”
My phone vibrated on the nightstand. I ignored it, then turned it off.
Back at home, time seemed warped. Bella’s nurse had set up a cot in the living room, ready to intervene at any hour.
The baby was moving less, and the doctor had scheduled a non-stress test for the next morning.
Bella didn’t sleep—she drifted in and out of consciousness, always waking with her hand on her belly, as if she needed to confirm the baby was still there.
At two a.m., the contractions came every seven minutes. By three, they were five. Bella called my phone, then called again. The nurse tried my number, then called Christian, who was listed as the emergency contact.
By four, Bella was doubled over in pain, blood leaking through her pajama pants, pooling on the white sheets.
The nurse called an ambulance, and in the chaos of the arrival—EMTs, flashing lights, neighbors in the hallway—she packed Bella’s hospital bag, checked the cat’s food, and shut off every light.
My phone buzzed on the floor of the hotel suite, muted by the carpet, vibrating with missed calls and urgent texts.
Victoria watched me sleep for a while, then dressed in the bathroom, and left without waking me. She didn’t leave a note. She didn’t need to.
I woke at dawn, my head full of static. I checked my phone, saw the avalanche of messages. The top one was from Christian: Call me NOW. The next was from the nurse: We are at the hospital. Call when you land.
I dressed in seconds. I left the room as if it were on fire, not caring who saw me or what story they’d piece together. I called the hospital from the back of the cab, and the voice on the other end told me everything I didn’t want to know.
Bella was in surgery. The baby was coming. And no one could find me.
The private plane took off in a hurry, barely clearing the tarmac.
The sun was a red smear on the horizon, the city fading behind us like a wound.
I stared out the window, refusing to look at my own reflection, counting the seconds until I could run down the corridor at the other end and find my wife, my daughter, still alive.
The watch Bella had given me was strapped to my wrist, ticking away the seconds I’d never get back.
The launch was a success, but I’d already failed the only test that mattered.