Chapter 3 - The Cold Awakening
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Claire Bennett opened her eyes to the sterile smell of antiseptic and the rhythmic beeping of cardiac monitors.
Every breath she took felt like inhaling crushed glass.
Her abdomen was wrapped in heavy surgical bandages that pulled agonizingly against her skin.
She tried to lift her arm, but the intravenous lines held her down like tethered chains.
Beside her bed, a dark shadow stirred from an uncomfortable vinyl chair.
Vincent looked like a ghost of the immaculate kingpin who had dismissed her tears in their penthouse.
His expensive dress shirt was wrinkled and stained with sweat, unbuttoned halfway down his chest.
A thick layer of dark stubble covered his jaw, and his eyes were sunken into purple hollows of exhaustion.
“Claire,” he choked out, surging forward to capture her limp hand between his trembling palms.
She did not squeeze back.
She did not pull away.
She simply looked through him as if he were an empty pane of glass.
“You’re awake, my sweet girl, thank God,” he whispered, pressing desperate, feverish kisses against her cold fingers.
“The doctors said you survived the worst of the infection.”
“I’ve been right here beside you for two days.”
Claire watched his frantic display of affection without blinking.
Her voice was barely a rasp, dried out from hours on a ventilator.
“Where is my son?” she asked.
Vincent swallowed hard, his throat clicking with unshed guilt.
“He’s in the incubator, Claire.”
“He’s fighting hard.”
“The pediatric specialists are doing everything possible.”
Claire turned her head slightly toward the white ceiling.
“Is he breathing on his own?”
“Not yet,” Vincent admitted, his voice cracking into pieces.
“He needs the respirator for a little while longer.”
Tears finally welled in Claire’s eyes, hot and silent, tracking into her tangled hair.
She remembered the searing pain in their living room when the first cramp ripped through her womb.
She remembered calling Vincent six times while the blood soaked through her skirt and onto his pristine white rugs.
Every single call had gone straight to his voicemail because he had silenced his phone for Sophia’s grand entrance.
“Claire, look at me, please,” Vincent pleaded, dropping to his knees beside her high hospital bed.
“I know what happened to you.”
“I know about the surgery.”
“I know you can’t have another baby.”
A faint, bitter smile touched the corner of Claire’s pale lips.
“You don't have to worry about cleaning up after children in your house anymore, Vincent.”
Her words sliced deeper than any rival gang’s switchblade ever had.
“Don't say that,” he begged, burying his face into her hospital blanket.
“We’ll build a nursery anywhere you want.”
“I’ll buy the entire hospital.”
“I’ll burn the whole world down to make this right.”
Claire turned her gaze back to him, her eyes completely devoid of warmth.
“You can’t buy back the three hours you spent holding Sophia’s hand.”
Vincent flinched as if struck across the mouth.
Before he could speak, the room door cracked open cautiously.
Sophia stood there, holding a bouquet of expensive white lilies, wearing an oversized cashmere sweater.
“Vinny, the driver said you haven't eaten in forty-eight hours,” Sophia said softly, stepping inside.
“I brought some food for you, and flowers for Claire.”
Claire did not raise her voice.
She did not scream or throw anything.
She simply looked at Vincent with absolute, devastating calm.
“Get her out of my room, or unhook my monitors and let me die right now.”
Vincent rose from the floor with lethal speed, his eyes blazing with murderous rage.
He snatched the expensive lilies from Sophia’s hands and hurled them straight into the hallway trash can.
“Get out!” Vincent snarled, shoving Sophia violently backward into the corridor.
“Never come near my wife again!”
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He slammed the heavy wooden door shut, breathing heavily as he leaned his forehead against the wood.
When he turned back around to comfort Claire, she had already closed her eyes, shutting him out entirely.
