The monitor beside my bed gave a sharp, frantic beep as my heart rate spiked. Another contraction seized my lower abdomen, radiating around my back like a band of heated iron.

"Tell me why your doctor just told someone you still love him," Trent repeated.

His voice wasn’t loud. That was what made it terrifying. It was low, flat, and hollowed out of every warmth he had carried when he slipped my fleece-lined slippers onto my swollen feet three hours ago.

Mallory stepped directly into his line of sight. "Trent, she is thirty-four weeks pregnant with three babies and her blood pressure is hitting the ceiling. Back the hell away."

"I asked my wife a question," he said, his eyes never blinking, drilling straight into me. "I was walking past the nurse’s station. I heard him on his phone outside the staff lounge. He was talking about you, Natalie. He said, *'She never let it go. Ten years, and she still looks at me the same way.'* Word for word."

"You're out of your mind," I gasped, clutching the handrail of the hospital bed as another wave peaked. The pain was blinding, crushing the air out of my lungs. "Trent... I haven't spoken to Ethan Ross in a decade until he walked into this ward tonight."

"Then why did Chelsea say she saw you two meeting in the hallway outside ultrasound last month?"

The air left the room.

Chelsea?

Before I could answer, the door swung wide. Dr. Ethan Ross strode in, flanked by two surgical nurses and an anesthesiologist holding a clipboard. His surgical cap was already tied, his expression razor-sharp and completely clinical.

"Natalie's fetal monitor is showing persistent decelerations on Baby B," Ethan announced crisply, not looking at Trent. "We can't wait for morning. We are going to the OR right now."

Trent didn't back down. He stepped squarely into the center of the doorway, planting his right hand firmly against the frame, his knuckles white.

"Nobody touches my wife until I get some answers," Trent barked.

Ethan halted, his brow furrowing in genuine disbelief. "Mr. Ward, your wife is in active premature labor with triplets, and one of their heart rates is dropping. Step aside."

"Don't talk to me like I'm an obstacle," Trent snarled, his chest heaving. "You think I don't see what's happening here? You think I'm blind?"

"We can discuss your concerns afterward," Ethan said, voice controlled, firm, carrying the weight of a surgeon who held lives in his hands every day. "Right now, Natalie needs—"

"Don't say her name like that!"

Mallory’s voice cut through the chaos like a whip. "Trent, you move right now, or so help me God, I will have the police drag you out in zip ties!"

Another contraction tore through me. A guttural groan escaped my lips. My vision tunneled, the edges blurring into grey. I looked at the man I had loved for six years. The man who had kissed my stretch marks every night, who had built three cribs with patient hands, who had sworn he would protect us.

Now, he was standing between me and our children's survival because his pride had bruised.

I looked at him and said, "Move."

He looked startled, as if he expected me to weep and beg for his trust.

"Natalie, you owe me the truth—"

I reached out and grabbed the wrist of the charge nurse standing beside my gurney. My nails dug into her scrub sleeve.

"Remove my husband."

The nurse bent close enough that I could feel her breath against my ear over the rising din. "You don't want him accompanying you into the OR?"

"I want him out," I said, every ounce of my remaining strength poured into those four syllables. "I want my doctor. And I want to go."

The charge nurse looked up and hit the red button on the wall. "Security to Room 412. Immediate escort needed."

Two burly security guards appeared behind Trent within seconds. When Trent tried to pull away, Ethan stepped forward, his body shielding the bed as the nurses unlocked the wheels.

"Natalie! Don't you dare do this!" Trent shouted down the corridor as they pushed him back against the wall. "Don't you run to him!"

The heavy double doors of the surgical corridor swung open, swallowing the sound of his shouts. As the fluorescent ceiling lights raced overhead in a blur of blinding white, the tears finally came.