The world narrowed to the violent crimson stain on her sheets.
One moment, Ariyah was asleep, dreaming of blue butterflies and autumn leaves. The next, she was awake, a strange, heavy warmth spreading beneath her. She flicked on the lamp. The sight stole the breath from her lungs a shocking, bright red bloom against the white linen. It was painless, which made it more terrifying.
Her hand flew to her belly. "No, no, no..."
She fumbled for her phone, her fingers slick. Dr. Vance's night-service answered on the first ring. Her voice, when she described it, was a thin, high thread of panic.
"Ariyah, listen to me," Dr. Vance's tone was calm but iron-clad. "You are bleeding. This is an emergency. You need to get to the hospital right now . Do not wait for Wayne. Do not shower. Go."
Wayne. She called him next, in Chicago. It was the middle of the night there. His voice was graveled with sleep. "Ariyah? What's "
"Wayne... there's blood. A lot of blood. I have to go to the hospital." The dam broke then, a sob ripping from her throat.
In a penthouse suite two thousand miles away, Wayne Collins was on his feet before the sentence was finished, naked and pale in the moonlight. "
"I'm coming. Now." He was already moving, the phone clamped between his shoulder and ear as he yanked on trousers. "Listen to me. Breathe. I'm calling my parents. They'll be there before you are. You are not alone. Do you hear me? You are not alone."
He hung up and the room erupted into controlled chaos. He barked orders into another phone as he shoved his arms into a shirt. "The car. Now. The jet clearance for immediate takeoff to LAX. I don't care what it costs, I don't care who you wake up. It needs to be in the air in twenty minutes. Make it happen." His voice was a whip, but his hands, tying his shoes, were trembling.
He called his father as he stormed toward the elevator. Thaddeus Collins answered on the second ring, his voice a deep, steady rumble even at this hour.
"Son?"
"Dad. It's Ariyah. She's bleeding. They're taking her to Cedars-Sinai, the private maternity pavilion. I'm in the air in twenty. I need you and Mom "
"We're already getting dressed," Thaddeus cut in, the sound of movement in the background. "We'll be there before the ambulance. We'll handle everything. You focus on getting here. She's not alone, Wayne."
The words were a small, vital anchor in the hurricane of his terror.
The private VIP suite at the hospital was more like a luxury hotel room than a medical bay soft lighting, a sitting area, art on the walls. None of it mattered. Ariyah lay in the center of the bed, dwarfed by it, wearing a hospital gown, a monitor belt strapped across the great curve of her belly. On a screen beside her, two lines danced: one, a jagged mountain range of contractions she couldn't even feel; the other, the steady, rapid whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of her son's heartbeat. That sound was the only thing keeping her from screaming.
Dr. Vance had come and gone, her ultrasound machine wheeled in and out. The diagnosis was precise and chilling.
"Symptomatic Placenta Previa, Grade Three," Dr. Vance had explained, her touch gentle on Ariyah's arm. "The placenta is covering your cervix. As your uterus stretches, it's causing these vessels to tear and bleed. The baby is perfect heartbeat is strong, he's active. But this is a serious warning. Our job is to make this warning the only one. We stop the contractions, stop the bleeding, and keep him cooking as long as we possibly can."
The plan was a barrage of interventions: IV fluids, powerful medications to quiet her uterus, a first dose of steroids to mature the baby's lungs, just in case. "Our first goal is 48 hours. Then 28 weeks. Then 32. Every day is a victory."
She was alone with the nurses when the door to the suite burst open.
Wayne stood there, a tempest in a rumpled suit, his hair wild from running his hands through it. His eyes, wide and frantic, scanned the room and found her. But he wasn't the first. Seated in a chair by the bed, holding Ariyah's hand, was Eleanor. Standing near the window, speaking in low, authoritative tones with a senior nurse, was Thaddeus Collins. He was an older, slightly softer copy of Wayne taller, with silver-streaked dark hair and the same commanding grey eyes, but they held a weathered calm. They had built a fortress of family around her bed.
Wayne seemed to crumple in the doorway. The ruthless CEO, the man of ice and silent power, deflated. He crossed the room in three strides, and instead of speaking, he simply bent over the bed, gathered her carefully into his arms, and buried his face in the curve of her neck. He didn't cry. He shook. A fine, violent tremor that ran through his entire body and into hers. His arms were vise-tight, as if he could physically shield her from the danger inside her own body.
"I'm here," he finally rasped, the words muffled against her skin. "I'm here now."
The magnesium sulfate, administered as a neuroprotective precaution, draped her in a wretched, heavy fog. It felt like being burned from the inside out, her skin prickling with heat, her muscles turning to water, her thoughts swimming through syrup. In this drugged, exhausted state, she fell into a deep sleep.
And she dreamed.
There was no hospital room. There was only a warm, golden light, like the last perfect hour of an autumn afternoon. And in the light, her parents. Her mother's smile was exactly as she remembered, her father's eyes crinkling at the corners. They didn't speak aloud, but their voices filled her mind, a wave of pure, unconditional love that washed away the fear.
Her mother floated a hand over Ariyah's swollen belly. A profound, unshakable certainty settled into Ariyah's bones, a knowledge as solid as stone.
"Our grandson is strong. He is coming, healthy and whole. You are protected. We are so proud of you, our fearless girl. We are with you".
She woke with a gasp, tears streaming freely down her temples and into her hairline. But they were not tears of fear. They were tears of release, of a burden lifted.
Wayne was instantly awake in the chair he'd pulled flush against her bed, his hand never having left her leg. "Ariyah? Pain? What is it?"
She turned her head, her vision blurry. She clutched his hand, bringing it to her damp cheek. "My parents," she whispered, her voice thick. "They were here. In a dream... but it was real."
She told him everything the light, their faces, the message. The absolute peace that had replaced the terror. "They said he's strong. That he's going to be okay. That they're watching."
Wayne listened, his stormy eyes searching hers, tracing the new serenity there. He didn't question it. He saw the truth of it in her. He leaned over and kissed her tear-stained cheeks, her closed eyelids, her lips with a tenderness that was its own kind of prayer. "Then he will be," he murmured against her mouth. "And they are."
The vigil settled into a grueling routine. Wayne became her primary caretaker, a role he assumed with a ferocious, silent devotion. He mopped her burning forehead with a cool cloth, held the cup of water with the bent straw to her lips, helped the nurse turn her when her muscles screamed from inactivity. He learned the rhythms of the monitors, his eyes constantly flicking to the heart rate tracing.
Thaddeus handled the outside world. He stood sentinel in the sitting area, a quiet titan fielding calls from the board, the press, and extended family. His presence alone guaranteed silence and supreme efficiency from the hospital staff.
Eleanor was the gentle force of normalcy, brushing Ariyah's hair, applying lip balm, reading aloud from design magazines. She was the one who shooed Wayne out for a five-minute walk to the hospital gardens, where Thaddeus met him.
Father and son stood in the sterile courtyard, under a gray sky. Wayne stared at a manicured hedge, his jaw a hard line.
"This is what it means," Thaddeus said quietly, not looking at him. "To have your heart walking around outside your body. The fear never leaves, son. Not really. It just becomes part of the love. You learn to carry it. You're doing right. Just be there. That's all she needs."
Wayne gave a stiff, barely perceptible nod. It was all he could manage.
On the second night, the peace shattered. The baby's heart rate, which had been a steady, reassuring rhythm, suddenly dipped a deep, worrying deceleration that lasted twenty endless seconds. An alarm chirped softly.
Ariyah's eyes flew open to see two nurses moving quickly into the room, their faces professionally neutral but their speed urgent. Wayne was on his feet, a statue of pure dread.
"He's just having a little dip, mom," one nurse said calmly, but she was gently turning Ariyah onto her side, adjusting monitors. "Let's just give him a change of position."
The seconds stretched. Ariyah held her breath, her eyes locked on Wayne's. Then, blessedly, the steady *whoosh-whoosh* returned, strong and regular. The nurses smiled, made a note, and slipped back out.
The silence they left behind was heavy with the echo of what could have been.
Later, long after Ariyah had fallen into an exhausted slumber, Wayne lay beside her on the narrow bed, curled around her as much as he could. The room was dark, lit only by the glow of the monitors. He watched the green heartbeat line march across the screen.
His control, held by a thread for days, finally snapped.
His lips moved against her hair, the words so soft they were almost inaudible, a confession to the dark and to her sleeping soul.
"You are my only empire," he whispered, his voice breaking. "All of it-the money, the power, the houses-it is nothing but empty rooms without you and our son in them. I loved you before I ever dared to speak your name. This life began the moment I saw you."
Ariyah, floating in the shallows of sleep, heard him. The words didn't wake her, but they seeped deep, merging with the golden peace from her dream, weaving into the very fabric of her being.
Forty-eight critical hours passed. The bleeding had stopped. The contractions were silenced. The second steroid shot was administered.
Dr. Vance stood at the foot of the bed, smiling a real, relieved smile. "You two are a formidable team. The immediate danger has passed. But the previa remains. You're going home, Ariyah, but to a new reality: strict, modified bedrest. No standing for more than a few minutes. No lifting anything heavier than a remote. We monitor twice a week. Any cramping, any spotting, you come back immediately. Our new goals: 28 weeks. Then 32. Every day is a victory we earn."
As a nurse began disconnecting the IV, the family gathered. Thaddeus placed a firm hand on Wayne's shoulder. Eleanor leaned down and kissed Ariyah's forehead. "You're coming home," Eleanor said, her own eyes shining. "We're all with you."
Wayne carried her out. Not in a wheelchair, but in his arms, wrapped in a blanket of the softest cashmere. His parents flanked them, a protective phalanx through the private exit to the idling car.
At the estate, he carried her up the stairs, through the quiet house, and laid her gently in the center of their bed. The door to the nursery was open. In the moonlight, the bronze and glass constellation mobile turned slowly, casting fleeting star-shadows on the wall.
He lay down beside her, fully dressed, and placed his hand on the tight curve of her belly. They waited, holding their breath.
Then it came. A strong, defiant, unmistakable thump against his palm.
A shuddering breath escaped Wayne, a release of tension so profound it seemed to come from his very bones. He curled his body around hers, his forehead pressed to her temple.
No words were needed. They listened instead to the soft, steady whoosh-whoosh from the portable fetal heart monitor on the nightstand a beacon in the dark room, a testament to a love that had stared into the abyss and held fast.