AKANNI'S POV
The hospital doors slid open with a sharp hiss.
"Emergency!" I shouted, my voice cutting through the sterile quiet as nurses rushed toward us.
Bukky lay motionless in my arms, her head resting against my chest, her skin cold in a way that terrified me. I didn't remember sitting down. I only remembered refusing to let go until they forced me to.
"We'll take her from here, sir," one of the nurses said gently.
My hands resisted before my mind did.
"Please," she added.
I released Bukky slowly, watching as they wheeled her away, my eyes locked on her face until the corridor swallowed her whole.
Then the waiting began.
The longest minutes of my life.
I stood rigid in the hallway, back against the wall, jaw clenched, my face carved into stone. People moved around me—doctors, nurses, but I felt detached from all of it, like I was standing outside my own body.
Demi arrived not long after, his confidence was gone, he looked smaller. Shaken. His clothes rumpled, his hands trembling, eyes darting like a trapped animal.
When he saw me, he stopped dead in his tracks.
"Akanni…" he started.
I didn't answer.
I didn't even look at him.
Moments later, a doctor approached me, flipping through a file.
"Are you the husband?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied immediately.
"She lost consciousness due to shock and emotional distress," the doctor said. "Physically, she's stable for now. But there's something else."
My heart skipped.
"She's eight weeks pregnant."
The world tilted.
Pregnant.
Eight weeks.
For a split second, something warm bloomed in my chest—joy, relief, something dangerously close to happiness. But I buried it instantly, forcing my face back into stillness.
The doctor continued speaking, unaware of the storm inside me. "Given the circumstances, stress and physical trauma could have endangered the pregnancy. She's lucky."
Lucky.
I turned slowly.
Demi was still there—listening.
Confused.
My fist connected with his face before anyone could react.
The sound echoed.
He staggered back, crashing into a chair.
"You stupid," I said quietly, my voice more terrifying than shouting. "Do you have any idea what you did?"
"I—I didn't know," Demi stammered, clutching his face. "She didn't tell me—"
I grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall.
"You beat a pregnant woman," I hissed. "Your wife."
The word hit him harder than the punch.
Pregnant?
His eyes widened in horror.
Before he could say anything, footsteps rushed toward us.
Bukky's parents.
Her mother's face crumpled the moment she saw Demi. Her father's jaw hardened, disappointment radiating from him like heat.
Toke followed behind them, eyes red, shaking.
"That's him," she said, pointing at Demi. "He was hitting her."
Demi dropped to his knees.
"I didn't know," he sobbed, crawling toward them. "Please—she provoked me—I didn't mean—"
Her father stepped back in disgust.
"Enough," he said coldly. "We raised our daughter better than this. And we trusted you."
Her mother turned to me, tears streaming down her face.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for saving our child."
Her father nodded solemnly. "You protected her when you didn't have to."
The doctor cleared his throat gently.
"The pregnancy is stable—for now."
That changed everything.
Joy rippled through the room—quiet, restrained, fragile joy. Even in the middle of pain, life had found a way in.
Mira arrived moments later, she didn't rush forward. She simply stood behind me, close enough that I could feel her presence, her hand slipping into mine silently.
"You're not alone," she whispered.
I exhaled for the first time since the call.
Demi, broken and shaking, crawled toward the door of Bukky's room, sobbing uncontrollably.
"I'm sorry," he cried. "Bukky—please—"
No one stopped him.
No one comforted him.
Then movement. A faint sound from the room. A nurse stepped out, eyes soft.
"She's waking up."
My heart slammed against my ribs.