The studio apartment is a punishment for poverty—water stains creeping down walls like tears, a radiator that clanks like a ghost in chains, windows that don't quite close.
I've graduated from the hotel to this. A trading room service for cockroaches, but at least it's mine for the month. My virtual assistant wages barely cover it, but pride tastes better than asking anyone for help.
I sit cross-legged on the sagging mattress, my enormous belly making even this simple position a challenge. Eight months pregnant, and I look like I've swallowed a beach ball.
Henri's latest letter trembles in my swollen hands.
“Ma chérie Elena,
I've been a fool to stay away so long. These letters, these confessions of want—they're not enough anymore. I'm booking my flight for next month. I need to see you, to touch you, to make real what we've been building in words.
I realize now that these letters aren't enough—I never want to be separated from you again. We've danced around this connection long enough. You write about being incomplete, but darling, we could be whole together.
I dream of you pregnant with my child someday. Can you imagine? You, glowing with life we created, me worshipping every inch of you.
I know it's too soon to speak of such things, but at my age, I've learned not to waste time on being careful.
One month, Elena. Then no more distance, no more imagination. Just us.”
"Oh God…" The letter falls from my hands. "Oh God, oh God."
Pregnant with his child someday.
If only he knew I'm pregnant with another man's children right now. Two of them. My belly shifts as if the twins can sense my panic.
"What am I going to do?" I ask them. "He's coming here. He'll see…"
I've been so careful. Sending old photos from before, claiming my phone camera broke, writing about "stress weight" when he asked if I was taking care of myself.
"Maybe I can hide it." I look down at my massive stomach. "Right. Hide this. I'll just wear a tent and hope he doesn't notice I'm the size of a small planet."
The first pain hits like a lightning strike across my abdomen. I gasp, hands flying to my belly.
"No. Not now. You're not due for two more weeks."
Another pain, sharper. The twins are usually active, but this is different. This is…
"Oh no." Liquid gushes between my legs, soaking through my sweatpants onto the linoleum. "No, no, no. Not here. Not alone."
Another contraction doubles me over. I fumble for my phone, fingers shaking as I dial. "911, what's your emergency?"
"I'm in labor and alone. Please…" I gasp through another wave of pain. "Please help me."
***
Fourteen hours. Fourteen hours of screaming, of begging, of pushing until I thought I'd split in two. No hand to hold except the nurse's.
"It's a girl!" Dr. Patterson announces, and then minutes later, "And a boy!"
Their cries fill the delivery room—the most beautiful sound I've ever heard. They place them on my chest, slippery and screaming and perfect, and I sob harder than I did during labor.
"You did it, honey," the nurse says. "All by yourself. You're incredible."
But I don't feel incredible. I feel shattered and remade, empty and overflowing, broken and somehow victorious.
Now they sleep in the clear bassinet beside my bed—my daughter with wisps of dark hair like mine, my son with his face scrunched even in sleep like he's already skeptical of this world.
"We made it," I whisper to them. "The three of us. We made it."
The door opens, and a nurse peeks in. "Mrs. Blackwood? The father is here to visit."
My exhausted heart leaps. Henri? But how? Did the hospital somehow… Has he arrived early? Did he track me down? My mind spins with impossibilities.
But it's Adrian who fills the doorway, his Tom Ford suit pristine as always, his expression arctic. He looks exactly the same as the day I left—not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in his armor.
As if the last eight months haven't happened. As if I haven't just spent fourteen hours ripping myself apart to bring his children into the world.
Without a word, without asking how I am, without acknowledging what I've endured, he tosses a thick manila envelope onto my bed.
It lands heavily against my hospital gown—divorce papers, I know without looking. Stapled and tagged with sticky notes for signatures like a business contract.
"As requested," he says, voice flat as granite.
I stare at him, unable to process that he'd bring legal documents when I can barely sit up. When I nearly hemorrhaged four hours ago, when our children are breathing their first breaths three feet away.
"I'll review and sign them when I've recovered a bit," I manage, forcing my voice steady though my hands shake.
"Why wait?" Adrian’s sarcasm cuts like a blade. "You wanted this so badly, didn't you? Might as well finish what you started."
"How did you even know I was…"
The twins' cries pierce the air, sharp and demanding. Adrian goes rigid, his carefully constructed indifference cracking like ice under spring sun.
He turns toward the sound like a man in a trance, approaching the bassinet with slow, measured steps. Adrian stares down at them for what feels like eternity, his hands gripping the rail until his knuckles turn white.
"Twins?" The word explodes from him, too loud for the quiet room.
His composure is fragmenting, pieces falling away with each tiny sound they make.
"A girl and a boy," I say quietly, watching emotions flicker across his face like a movie reel, shock, pain, regret, yearning, before he locks them all away.
I see Adrian’s hand twitch, starting to reach toward them. His fingers extend, almost touching the edge of the blanket.
He wants to hold them. I can see it in every line of his body, the father in him fighting the cold executive. But Adrian shoves his hands deep into his pockets instead, stepping back from the bassinet like it's made of fire.
"Their names?" His voice cracks slightly.
"I haven't… I haven't decided yet."
"They look..." He stops, swallows hard. "The boy has your nose."
"The girl has your eyes."
The weight of everything unsaid crushing the air between us. Our children, our failures, our ending—all of it witnessed by these two perfect beings who never asked for any of this.
"Just... get the papers signed quickly," he says roughly, already backing toward the door, almost running. "The sooner this is over, the better for everyone."
And then he’s gone. The divorce papers lie on my bed like a tombstone, marking the official death of what we were.
I pick up my daughter, her weight is nothing and everything in my arms.
"Your daddy's a coward," I whisper. "But maybe that's for the best. Maybe we're better off without someone who runs from love."
My son starts to cry, and I shift my daughter to reach for him, juggling both babies in my exhausted arms. Three souls in a hospital room, abandoned but not alone. We have each other, and maybe that's enough.
Maybe it has to be.