Scars Of His Ruthless Contract Pregnancy

Three days later, the sky opened over Manhattan and didn't close. Denice walked from the subway to New York-Presbyterian, seventeen blocks, her umbrella useless against the wind that turned rain horizontal. By the time she reached the hospital's marble lobby, she was soaked through, water streaming from her hair, her secondhand coat heavy as lead. The air conditioning hit her like a wall of ice. She shivered, teeth chattering, and approached the desk with the card Jasper's assistant had mailed-heavy stock, embossed lettering, her name misspelled as "Denise." "Dr. Montgomery's patient," she said, her voice barely audible over the shivering. "Obstetrics. Pre-conception screening." The receptionist's expression shifted, the subtle recalibration that happened whenever the Montgomery name was invoked. "Of course, Mrs. Montgomery. Elevator to the fifteenth floor. Someone will meet you." The elevator was glass, offering a view of the rain-swept city as it rose. Denice leaned against the wall, her reflection ghostly in the wet glass. She looked like a drowned rat. She felt like one. The fifteenth floor was carpeted, quiet, the smell of antiseptic overlaid with something floral and expensive. A nurse in pink scrubs led her to an exam room, handed her a gown, smiled with professional warmth that didn't reach her eyes. Dr. Cromwell was efficient. Blood draw, pelvic exam, ultrasound to confirm cycle timing. Denice lay on the table, staring at the ceiling tiles, and tried not to think about Jasper in the next room, Jasper down the hall, Jasper who'd seen her Instagram stalking and said nothing, who'd scheduled this appointment and wouldn't be present for it. "Almost done," Dr. Cromwell said. "Just need one more vial." The needle slid into her arm. Denice watched her blood fill the tube, dark and vital, and thought of Ansel's blood, of the cells that shouldn't be there, of the child that might save him. The room tilted. She blinked. The tilt remained, the ceiling sliding sideways, the light fixtures multiplying. She tried to speak, to warn them, but her tongue was thick, her lips numb. "Mrs. Montgomery?" Dr. Cromwell's voice, distant, underwater. "Are you-" The floor rose to meet her. She had time to think, stupidly, that the tile was colder than she'd expected, and then nothing. --- Jasper Montgomery was not having a good morning. The resident's presentation had been sloppy, the MRI results inconclusive, and his mother's third voicemail-unanswered-sat on his phone like a threat. He strode down the fifteenth-floor corridor, his white coat flapping, his mind already on the afternoon's surgeries, when he saw the cluster of staff outside Exam Room 4. He recognized the posture. The hushed voices. The someone-is-dying tension that permeated every hospital, every floor, every shift. He approached without breaking stride. "Problem?" A nurse turned, relief flooding her face. "Dr. Montgomery. We have a patient down, she just-" He saw the legs first. Bare, pale, protruding from a hospital gown that had ridden up. Then the hair, dark and wet and plastered to the tile. Then the face, turned away, but he'd know that profile in darkness, in dreams, in the grave. Denice. He was kneeling before he made the decision to kneel. His fingers found her carotid, pressing for the pulse. Rapid. Thready. Her skin was burning under his touch, fever-hot, and when he lifted her eyelid, the pupil was sluggish, unresponsive. "Get a gurney." His voice came from somewhere distant, professional, calm. "IV access, normal saline, blood glucose check. Now." They moved. He didn't watch them. He was already assessing-dehydration, hypothermia, exhaustion, the wet clothes that meant she'd walked through the storm because she couldn't afford a cab, because she'd quit her job because he'd made her, because- "Dr. Montgomery?" The gurney appeared, wheels locked, sheets crisp and white. He lifted her. She weighed nothing, less than nothing, a collection of bones and wet cotton that folded against his chest without resistance. Her head lolled back, exposing her throat, and he saw the bruise there-faint, yellowing, from his own hand three nights ago-and something in his chest twisted, sharp and unfamiliar. He laid her on the gurney, stepped back, let the team work. But he followed them to the nearest VIP room, stood in the doorway while they established IV access, hung fluids, checked vitals. Her temperature was 103.2. Her blood pressure was borderline. Her blood glucose, when the strip finally read, was 47. "She's stable," the nurse said, looking to him for dismissal. "We can move her to a regular room if-" "She stays here." The words came out before he could stop them. "I'll monitor." The team exchanged glances. He didn't care. He moved to the bedside, stood over her unconscious form, and tried to remember why he hated her. She'd married Elek. She'd used his brother's grief, his vulnerability, to secure her position. She was cold, calculating, mercenary. She'd sold her body for her son's life without a moment's hesitation, which meant she'd sell anything, do anything- But she'd walked seventeen blocks in a hurricane. She'd kept a job that paid fourteen dollars an hour when she could have lived on Montgomery money. She'd bitten her lip until it bled rather than cry in front of him. Jasper reached out. His hand hovered over her forehead, almost touching, almost soothing. He could feel the heat radiating from her skin, could see the flutter of her pulse in her throat, could- He pulled back. Made a fist. What was he doing? This was Denice Copeland. The woman who'd destroyed his brother. The woman who'd looked at him across Elek's coffin with dry eyes and dry heart. She was nothing to him. A means to an end. A vessel for Montgomery blood. He turned to leave. He would call his mother, have her send someone to sit with the patient, remove himself from this situation that was making him think dangerous, unprofessional thoughts- The phone on the bedside table buzzed. He stopped. Looked back. The screen had lit up, displaying a name he recognized with a surge of something hot and primitive in his gut. Arthur Fletcher.