Chapter 1 - THE BATTLE FOR THREE HEARTBEATS
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“Scalpel.”
Dr. Adrian Whitmore's voice cut through the operating room.
“Now.”
The tray hit his hand.
Around him, alarms screamed.
One fetal monitor had dropped into a terrifying rhythm.
The other was barely registering.
And I was slipping away.
“Blood pressure fifty-eight over thirty-two,” the anesthesiologist called.
“Push another unit.”
“Already running.”
Adrian looked at my face.
For one second, the surgeon disappeared.
The man who had once kissed me beneath a broken streetlamp in Boston stared back at me.
Then training took over.
“Incision.”
The room moved.
My body felt distant.
Cold.
Weightless.
I heard voices as if they were underwater.
“Come on, Naomi…”
“Stay with us.”
“Baby one heart rate is dropping.”
Adrian made the decision.
“Deliver baby one.”
A sudden pressure.
A burst of pain.
Then silence.
A newborn cry cut through the room.
Everyone froze.
“Baby girl,” a nurse whispered.
A second heartbeat appeared.
Stronger.
Adrian exhaled.
“Baby two.”
Another incision.
Another frantic sequence of hands.
Another cry.
“Baby boy.”
Two cries.
Two tiny lives.
I wanted to smile.
Then everything went black.
I woke hours later.
The ceiling above me was white.
My throat burned.
My abdomen felt as though a truck had driven over it.
I couldn't remember where I was.
Then I heard someone crying.
Two voices.
Tiny.
Fragile.
My eyes opened.
A nurse stood beside my bed.
“Naomi?”
“My babies.”
“They're alive.”
I began crying.
“Both?”
“Both.”
She smiled.
“A girl and a boy.”
I closed my eyes.
Thank God.
Then a shadow appeared in the doorway.
Adrian.
He was still wearing surgical scrubs.
His mask hung around his neck.
His face looked exhausted.
He stared at me.
“You almost died.”
I swallowed.
“You saved me?”
“I did my job.”
“No.”
My voice broke.
“You saved my babies.”
He looked toward the nursery window.
“Your babies.”
The words were careful.
Almost painfully careful.
I looked at him.
“You don't know if they're yours.”
His jaw tightened.
“No.”
I stared at the ceiling.
Six years ago, he had walked away believing I had betrayed him.
Six years.
He hadn't contacted me.
Hadn't searched.
Hadn't asked whether I had survived.
And now he was standing beside my hospital bed while his possible children fought for their lives.
“You don't get to come back because they're beautiful,” I whispered.
He looked wounded.
“I know.”
“You don't get to decide you're their father because you saw them first.”
“I know.”
“You believed your mother.”
His face hardened.
“I know.”
Silence.
Then a nurse rushed in.
“Dr. Whitmore.”
Adrian turned.
“The newborn male has a complication.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
The nurse looked at him.
“We found something unusual on his blood work.”
Adrian's expression changed.
“What?”
“The neonatal screening indicates a rare inherited marker.”
He frowned.
“What marker?”
The nurse handed him the chart.
Adrian read it.
Then slowly looked up.
His face had gone pale.
I watched him.
“What is it?”
He didn't answer.
“Adrian.”
He stepped toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
He turned.
“That marker runs in my family.”
My heart stopped.
“What does that mean?”
His eyes met mine.
“It means there may be more wrong with this than I thought.”
“More wrong?”
He looked toward the nursery.
“Your son may have inherited something from the Whitmore bloodline that nobody has documented in decades.”
Then his phone rang.
He answered.
I heard a woman's voice through the receiver.
His mother.
Eleanor Whitmore.
Adrian's expression changed instantly.
She spoke for several seconds.
Then Adrian whispered:
“How did you know she was here?”
He ended the call.
I stared at him.
“What did she say?”
He looked at me.
“She asked whether the twins had been born.”
My stomach tightened.
“She knew?”
Adrian's face became cold.
“And she knew they were twins.”
I felt a chill.
“She shouldn't have known.”
Adrian slowly turned toward the nursery.
Then back toward me.
“My mother has been searching for you.”
“For six years?”
“For six years.”
May you like
He paused.
“And now I think I finally understand why.”
