The labor was a blur of agony and white light. By the time Thomas Wilson entered the world, crying with a lusty vigor that defied his slightly premature arrival, I was shattered. My body felt like a shipwreck washed ashore.

But he was perfect. Ten fingers, ten toes, and a tuft of dark hair that matched his father’s.

I lay in the recovery room, the adrenaline fading into a bone-deep exhaustion. Michael held Thomas for a moment, his expression unreadable, before handing him back to the bassinet.

“I have to take that call,” he said, checking his watch. “The office… they don’t stop, even for this.”

“Go,” I whispered, too tired to argue.

He left the room. Moments later, the door opened again.

She walked in with a stride that was too confident, too proprietary. Her name tag read Rachel. She was beautiful in a sharp, brittle way—blonde hair pulled back tight, eyes the color of sea glass, and a smile that didn’t quite reach them.

“Mrs. Wilson,” she cooed, checking the IV line with efficient, cold fingers. “You had a rough time of it. I’m Rachel. I’ll be your primary nurse for the next few days.”