“That is not how this works,” the doctor insisted, frustration piercing through clinical restraint. “She requires a verified emergency contact immediately.”
“Then you should update your records accordingly.”
Without another word, Gabriel turned and walked away. His footsteps echoed softly along the polished corridor floor, steady and unhurried, and not once did he glance toward the neonatal wing where his children continued their silent fight for survival.
Inside the intensive care unit, consciousness returned slowly and painfully, as though I were rising through layers of dense resistance. My throat burned with dryness, my muscles throbbed with surgical trauma, and confusion clouded my thoughts when a nurse leaned closer, her expression marked by compassion.
“My babies,” I whispered, panic tightening my chest.
“They are alive,” she answered gently. “They are extremely small, but they are fighting with remarkable strength.”
Relief surged through me, fragile yet overwhelming.
Moments later, a hospital administrator entered, his tone rehearsed, his demeanor detached.
“Mrs. Carter,” he began, then corrected himself without pause. “Miss Carter.”
The words struck with disorienting force.
“I don’t understand,” I said weakly.
“Your divorce was finalized this morning,” he explained with bureaucratic neutrality.
“I was unconscious.”
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