9 Months Pregnant, He Demanded We Split Costs: “I Never Forced You.” Next Day: “Where’s My Baby?”
Chapter 2
I photographed everything and sent it to Denise.
Then the front door opened.
Nathan had come home three hours early.
I returned the papers to the drawer just as he entered his office.
“What are you doing in here?”
“Looking for my insurance card.”
“It’s in the kitchen.”
“It wasn’t.”
His eyes moved toward the cabinet.
“What did you read?”
“Why is my name on a $4.9 million loan?”
His face changed.
Not guilt.
Irritation.
“It’s a restructuring facility.”
“Why does it need my apartment?”
“Temporary collateral.”
“You listed me as a guarantor.”
“Nothing happens until you sign.”
“You wrote ‘after delivery, hospital’ on a power of attorney.”
Nathan closed the door.
“Lower your voice.”
“There’s nobody here.”
“The neighbors don’t need to hear our finances.”
I almost smiled.
“Our finances? Yesterday you said pregnancy expenses were mine.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“Lakeview Commons is delayed. Once construction resumes, the bridge loan gets repaid.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“It will.”
“Your lender doesn’t believe that.”
He stepped closer.
“Do you think I would jeopardize our future?”
“You already used my Social Security number without permission.”
“I’m your husband.”
Those three words frightened me more than the debt.
“As my husband, you don’t own my identity.”
Nathan’s phone vibrated.
He ignored it.
“There are thirty-seven employees whose jobs depend on this.”
“You made the business decisions.”
“You can save those jobs.”
“By risking my home.”
“You would never lose it.”
“Then Rebecca can guarantee the loan.”
His silence told me she had already refused.
Nathan opened a document on his phone.
“Sign this limited authorization. Thirty seconds.”
“No.”
“Laura.”
“No.”
“This is not a game.”
“I know.”
He pushed the phone toward me.
“You can still fix this.”
I looked at the blank signature box.
“You mean I still have something left for you to take.”
A notification appeared on his screen.
*Credit access unavailable. Applicant file frozen.*
Nathan went still.
“You froze your credit?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
He looked almost physically struck.
“Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“I stopped someone borrowing money in my name.”
“Northstar will think I lied.”
“Did you tell them I had agreed?”
He did not answer.
“Did you?”
“I told them spousal consent was expected.”
“Based on what?”
“Our marriage.”
“Marriage is not blanket consent.”
His voice hardened.
“Unfreeze it.”
“No.”
“Laura, I am not asking.”
A strange calm moved through me.
“It was always a request, Nathan. You were just counting on me not knowing that.”
Pain tightened low across my abdomen.
I stopped speaking and breathed.
Nathan noticed.
“Was that a contraction?”
“I don’t know.”
For half a second, concern appeared.
Then his phone rang.
Rebecca.
He answered.
“I’m coming.”
I stared at him.
“Where?”
“To keep the lender at the table.”
“I may be in labor.”
“You said you don’t know yet.”
“And if I am?”
He picked up his coat.
“Jennifer can drive you. Call me when it’s real.”
Then he left.
At 11:12 that night, the contraction hit so hard I doubled over the kitchen counter.
Minutes later, warm fluid ran down my legs.
Jennifer grabbed the hospital bag.
Then my daughter stopped moving.
I called Nathan.
No answer.
Again.
Voicemail.
I texted him.
*My water broke. The baby isn’t moving. We’re going to the hospital.*
The ambulance arrived.
His reply came as paramedics lifted me onto the stretcher.
*I’m busy.*
Two words.
I stared at them.
Then I handed my phone to Jennifer.
“Don’t let me call him again.”
The fetal heart rate was dangerously low.
By the time we reached the hospital, Dr. Grant was waiting.
“The cord may be compressing. We need to deliver now.”
“C-section?”
“Emergency C-section.”
“Will she live?”
Dr. Grant took my hand.
“We’re moving as fast as we can.”
A nurse asked where the baby’s father was.
“Unavailable,” I said.
It sounded better than the truth.
They removed my wedding ring because my fingers were swollen.
“Give it to Jennifer.”
The operating room lights burned overhead.
I had spent months imagining Nathan beside me when our daughter arrived. Even after everything, some foolish part of me had believed birth might call forth the man I once loved.
Instead, a nurse whose name I barely knew held my hand.
Then the room changed.
The doctors became quieter.
“Why isn’t she crying?”
No answer.
“Please.”
My voice cracked.
“Why isn’t my baby crying?”
Dr. Grant spoke from behind the blue curtain.
“She’s out. The neonatal team is helping her breathe.”
I stared at the ceiling.
I would have surrendered everything in that moment.
The condo.
My career.
My marriage.
Every plan I had ever made.
Just let her breathe.
Then a thin cry broke through the room.
Small.
Angry.
Alive.
I sobbed.
“She’s breathing,” the nurse said.
They brought her close for only seconds before taking her to special care.
Dark hair.
Red cheeks.
One tiny fist opening beside her face.
“Hello,” I whispered. “I’m your mother. I’m here.”
She turned slightly toward my voice.
That tiny movement repaired something inside me.
Our daughter was born at 12:47 a.m., six pounds, five ounces. The cord had been wrapped tightly around her neck twice. Dr. Grant later told me another hour might have changed everything.
Another hour.
Exactly what Nathan had decided his meeting was worth.
