10. Strategic Distance #2
Look at the devoted husband. I traced the bright glare of the overhead exam lights. So desperate to protect his investment. He was putting on a flawless show for the medical staff. If he acted frantic enough, no one would ever question his tears at my funeral.
Nurse Elena didn’t flinch at his tone. She tapped the screen of her tablet, reading the data from the fetal monitor.
“Mr. Davenport, I need you to step back and lower your voice,” she instructed. She kept her eyes on the machine. “The fetal heart rate is strong and steady. It looks like a severe round of Braxton Hicks exacerbated by fatigue, but the doctor is coming in to verify.”
Warren stopped pacing. He stood at the foot of the bed, staring at the green spikes on the monitor screen.
I kept my hands flat against the stiff hospital blanket, finding immense comfort in the physical barrier between us.
He couldn’t touch me here. He couldn’t force his intimacy while the nurse stood beside the bed, guarding the machinery.
I forced a weak smile onto my face, playing the exhausted, grateful wife for my audience of one.
“It’s okay, Warren,” I said, letting a convincing tremor slip into my tone. “I think the pain is starting to fade. The nurse has it under control.”
Warren shoved his hands into his pockets, nodding at the machine. I let my head sink into the pillows, barricaded behind the sterile equipment and the harsh fluorescence of the room.
The triage door swung inward, interrupting the quiet isolation of the ward.
The attending doctor stepped inside, his attention fixed on a glowing tablet in his right hand.
He approached the mattress and swiped a finger across the screen.
He cross-referenced the data with the steady pulse echoing from the fetal monitor speakers.
The baby delivered a swift kick beneath the elastic bands, sending a brief spike of static through the audio feed.
I waited beneath the blinding clinical lights, desperate for a medical excuse to stay away from my house.
“The contractions have tapered off,” the doctor noted.
He lowered the tablet and offered a reassuring professional smile.
“Everything looks stable, Mrs. Davenport. However, given your third-trimester status and your workload, I’m admitting you overnight so we can monitor your vitals. Strictly precautionary.”
The tight knot in my chest unspooled. Staying overnight meant a secured ward. It meant nurses walking the halls and unquestionable physical distance from my own bedroom. I let my palms press flat into the coarse cotton sheets. The harsh texture of the cotton helped steady my racing pulse.
Before I could even process the relief, Warren shifted his weight.
He left his spot at the foot of the bed and stepped flush against the metal rails.
He reached down and clamped his hand over my knuckles.
He squeezed my fingers together, trapping them against the mattress.
He rubbed his thumb over my skin, playing the deeply concerned husband for the medical staff.
“Hospital policy limits overnight guests in the observation ward, Mr. Davenport,” the doctor cautioned. “She needs uninterrupted rest.”
Warren stiffened. His actor’s ego flared at the gentle correction. “I am her husband. I can sit in a chair without disturbing her.”
He turned his face back to me. His dark eyes bore into mine, making sure I saw exactly how worried he was pretending to be. “I’m not leaving her side. I’ll take the chair in the corner.”
I looked past his shoulder. The rigid plastic visitor’s chair sat wedged against the far wall.
I stared at it, my stomach dropping as I realized exactly what that meant.
If he stayed, I would have to close my eyes and try to sleep while the man planning to kill me sat just a few feet away.
He would wait in the shadows and monitor my every breath.
The heavy scent of his cologne drifted over the bed. It overwhelmed the sharp smell of rubbing alcohol. I needed him out of this building. I could not flinch. I could not pull my hand away from his possessive grip.
I had to weaponize his vanity. He cared more about his public image on the documentary footage than he cared about anything else. I summoned a tired, appreciative smile.
“Warren, absolutely not,” I said. “You have to handle the morning logistics for the documentary crew and the firm.”
I slid my fingers out from under the crushing weight of his palm. Reaching up, I pressed my hand to his cheek. The rough friction of his stubble scraped against my skin. It took deliberate focus to keep my wrist steady against his jaw.
I stared at the man who had sworn to protect me. Now, he was just waiting for the perfect moment to poison me. I traced my thumb over his cheekbone. I softened my features, playing the naive mark he expected to see.
“If you stay here in that awful chair, you’ll be exhausted tomorrow, and I need you running the company,” I said. “Please, go home and get some rest. For me.”
Warren leaned into my touch. The lingering scent of his mint breath fanned across my face. He gripped the bed rail with his free hand, putting on a show of reluctance for the doctor. He loved this role. Playing the tragic, devoted partner gave him exactly the kind of attention he craved.
“Are you absolutely sure?” Warren asked. “I hate leaving you alone in a hospital room.”
“I’m sure,” I replied. “I’m just going to sleep anyway. I’ll call you the second I wake up.”
He hovered over the bed for another agonizing second. He squeezed the metal railing, milking the performance for all it was worth. I held my position, resisting the urge to push his chest away.
He leaned down over the mattress. His mouth pressed against my forehead in a lingering, practiced kiss. I focused my eyes on the bright exam lights above the bed, enduring the damp press of his lips.
He finally pulled away. Cool, conditioned air washed across my skin, bringing immediate relief. He released his grip on the bed rail and turned toward the exit. His hard soles clicked against the polished floor as he crossed the room.
He did not look back. He grabbed the handle and pulled the triage door shut behind him. The latch engaged with a metallic click.
I exhaled a long, shaking breath, finally alone.
The only sounds left in the room were the rhythmic, synthesized pulse of the fetal monitor and the steady hum of the lighting.
I let my arms go slack against the sheets.
I listened to his footsteps fade down the hallway, sinking into the rigid hospital mattress as I realized I had secured a safe, quiet night away from my husband.