Sierra Miller LaBricciosa

The night I went into labor, my husband was choosing baby names with another woman. I knew because he answered my call on speaker. "Push through it, Camille," Damon said, distracted. "Vanessa needs me right now. Her panic attacks are serious." "Damon, my water just broke." My voice cracked against the cold bathroom tile. "I'm bleeding. Something's wrong." A soft, syrupy giggle floated through the line. "Damon, do you like 'Lily' or 'Rose'? For when we have ours?" He chuckled — warm, affectionate, a tone he hadn't used with me in months. "Whatever you want, sweetheart." I gripped the sink so hard my knuckles went white. "Damon. The baby. Our baby." A pause. Then a sigh, the kind you give a needy child. "Camille, we've been over this. The doctors say Vanessa could relapse if I'm not there. You're strong. You don't need me." His voice hardened. "Just take a cab to the hospital like a normal adult." Then I heard him whisper, away from the phone but not far enough: "Sorry about that. My wife's being dramatic again." The line went dead. I slid down to the floor, contractions ripping through me, blood pooling beneath my nightgown. I was thirty-four weeks pregnant with the child of Damon Hale — heir to Hale Industries, the man half the city would kill to marry. And I was about to deliver his baby alone. I didn't cry. I'd run out of tears around month six, when he started spending his nights at her apartment, "stabilizing" the fragile childhood friend who'd reappeared in his life like a ghost. Vanessa Cross. The woman who fainted on cue. Who texted him photos of her wrists every time I asked for an hour of his time. I dragged myself to the door, one hand cradling my belly. Hold on, baby. Mommy's got you. Even if no one's got us. The cab driver took one look at me and floored it to St. Augustine General. I was wheeled into delivery at 2:14 a.m. By 4:47 a.m., I was holding a tiny, perfect girl with Damon's dark lashes and my stubborn chin. The nurse smiled gently. "What's her name, Mrs. Hale?" I looked down at her. At the daughter her own father didn't bother to meet. "Hale," I whispered. Then I caught myself. "No. Just... give me a minute." Because three hours earlier, while I was screaming on a bathroom floor, my phone had buzzed one final time. A photo. Damon and Vanessa, foreheads together, her hand on his chest. The caption read: "Finally telling her tomorrow. You're the only family I've ever needed. — D" He wasn't planning to leave Vanessa. He was planning to leave me. I held my daughter tighter and made a decision that would burn his world to the ground. He thought I didn't need him. He was about to find out exactly how right he was.