Chapter 3 - The Crimson Stain and the Broken Vow
The gift table shifted violently behind me as decorative boxes slid onto the floor with muffled thuds. Someone nearby shrieked in absolute horror, calling out for a doctor, but the sound reached my ears as if underwater. A moment ago, my mind had been consumed by hurt feelings and petty family drama; now, every single thought narrowed down to a single, agonizing terror: Is my baby going to be okay?
I clutched my stomach with both hands, warm blood soaking through my fingers, and cried out for my husband. “Theo! Theo, please!”
Mom stood frozen a few feet away, her eyes wide as she stared at the spreading stain on my dress. Instead of rushing forward to help her eight-months-pregnant daughter, she threw her hands up defensively and said in a loud, callous voice, “It was just a little push! Don’t be so dramatic, Naomi, you’re making a spectacle of yourself!”
Her words felt surreal, echoing through the chaotic blur of the banquet hall. The tables, the glittering lights, and the sea of shocked guests began to spin wildly around me while I struggled to breathe, terrified to move in case the pain worsened. I wanted our daughter to kick. I wanted someone—anyone—to tell me she was safe.
Strong, steady arms caught me before I hit the ground. Theo reached my side in a blinding flash, his face instantly draining of all color when his eyes locked onto the blood on my dress. He didn't waste a single second arguing with my mother, nor did he ask the paralyzed crowd to weigh in on what they had just witnessed. He scooped me up into his arms as effortlessly as if I weighed nothing, his jaw clenched so tightly I could see the muscle twitching in his cheek.
As he carried me swiftly toward the exit doors, my mother shrieked, “Theo, put her down! She’s just trying to ruin Bianca’s party!”
Theo didn't even turn his head back to look at her. But as he reached the double doors of the ballroom, he stopped for a fraction of a second, his voice cutting through the stunned silence of the room like a razor blade.
“You just made the biggest mistake of your life,” he said quietly, his tone dripping with a chilling, lethal promise.
Someone rushed ahead to fling the heavy glass doors open, and Theo carried me out into the cool evening air, gently placing me in the back seat of our car while dialing 911 on speakerphone with shaking hands.
During the frantic, agonizing drive to St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital, I gripped Theo’s hand so tightly my knuckles turned white, repeatedly asking him what he had meant by those parting words. He kept his eyes locked on the road, driving with terrifying speed and precision, using his free hand to stroke my hair.
May you like
“Just focus on breathing, baby,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, though he sounded terrifyingly calm. “We’re almost there. The doctors are going to take care of you and our little girl. Just hold on.”
His voice was steady, but I knew the deep, rumbling timbre he reserved exclusively for moments of absolute war. For the first time all evening, a cold realization settled into my bones: Theo wasn't just reacting to the immediate emergency. He knew something about my mother—some deep, hidden leverage or long-buried secret—that I had never been clued into.
