The doctor adjusted the monitor, squinting at the grainy, black-and-white screen. The silence in the small room was agonizing.
And then, the sound filled the room.
Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh.
It was the rapid, rhythmic, unmistakable galloping of a fetal heartbeat.
Maya broke. She didn’t just cry; she let out a profound, racking sob of pure, unadulterated relief. Her entire body shuddered as the tension left her muscles. The baby had survived the fall. The baby was alive.
“Strong heartbeat,” the doctor murmured, a soft smile breaking through her clinical demeanor. “Subchorionic bleeding is present, likely from the trauma, so you are on strict bed rest. But the pregnancy is viable.”
As the doctor left the room to finalize the charting, the heavy curtain was pulled back.
Arthur stepped into the bay.
He was wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, his silver hair impeccably combed. He looked entirely out of place in a trauma ward, but his eyes were burning with a dark, terrifying fire. He walked to the edge of the bed and looked down at his niece.
