Chapter 18 - Birth in the Storm
The storm had washed out the main access bridge leading to the estate. Ambulances were delayed by at least twenty minutes.
Inside my master bedroom suite, Dr. Lena Ortiz—who had accompanied the tactical medical team—had transformed my bed into an emergency delivery station.
"Breathe, Mara! Breathe!" Dr. Ortiz commanded, her surgical gloves coated in sterile gel. "You are eight months pregnant. The babies are ready, but you have to push!"
The pain was terrifying, tearing through my body in relentless waves. Outside the room, paramedics were working furiously to stabilize Reid’s pulse before carrying him out on a stretcher.
"I can't!" I screamed, clutching the bedsheets, sweat soaking my hair. "Lena, I'm scared!"
Detective Walsh stepped up to the side of my bed. She took off her tactical gloves and grabbed my hand with a firm, unbreakable grip.
"Look at me, Mara!" Walsh barked, her eyes fierce with maternal power. "You survived two knife wounds to the chest! You survived a corporate conspiracy! You survived an assassination attempt! You are the strongest woman I have ever met in my life! PUSH!"
I looked at Rowan, then at Lena, then down at my belly.
I let out a primal, fierce scream that shook the very foundation of the house. I poured every ounce of pain, grief, survival, and love into one final, heroic effort.
"The head is out!" Lena yelled. "One more push, Mara! ONE MORE!"
I screamed again, pushing with everything left in my soul.
At 3:42 AM, a sharp, high-pitched cry echoed through the room.
"Baby A is born! A healthy baby boy!" Lena wept, holding up a tiny, squirming, beautiful infant.
Before I could even catch my breath, another massive contraction racked my body.
"Here comes Baby B!" Lena shouted. "Push, Mara!"
With one final surge of strength, I pushed.
At 3:44 AM, a second cry joined the first—clear, loud, and full of pure life.
"Baby B is born! A healthy baby girl!"
They placed both babies onto my bare chest. They were tiny, warm, covered in tears and life, instantly quieting the moment they felt my skin against theirs.
I held my son and daughter close to my heart, sobbing uncontrollably.
"Leo... and Maya..." I whispered, kissing their tiny foreheads. "You made it. We made it."
Downstairs in the foyer, crime scene technicians were wrapping Evelyn Whitmore’s body in a black body bag.
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The monster was dead. The shadow was gone.
And in my arms rested the light of a new beginning.
