The first text is from an unknown number:
Traitor whore. We know where you work.
The second:
Iron Talon's puta. Better run.
The third is from Miguel:
24 hours. Choose wisely. Mom would be ashamed.
That last one breaks me all over again. I sink onto my couch while Zane makes calls, arranges safe houses, prepares for war.
The baby doesn't care about any of it, just keeps growing, dividing, becoming.
A perfect disaster, just like its parents.
Just then, my phone rings
“Hello? I... yes. We'll be right there."
I look at Zane, eyes wide with a different kind of panic. "That was St. Mary's. Nathan's there, drunk, making a scene about... about me. About us."
Of course. Because one war wasn't enough.
Chapter thirty-three
Multiple Fronts
Lena
The emergency department at St. Mary's feels like stepping into another life—one where I was clean, respectable, dedicated to healing instead of drowning in violence. But Nathan's drunk voice shatters that illusion, cutting through the controlled chaos like a scalpel through infected tissue.
"Where is she? Where's the night shift angel who spreads her legs for killers?"
Every familiar face turns toward us as Zane and I enter. Dr. Morrison's disappointment, Nurse Kim's shock, Security Dave's embarrassment—I catalog each reaction like documenting symptoms. The death of my reputation happens in real-time, measured in widened eyes and hushed whispers.
Nathan looks wrong in the fluorescent lights—his usually perfect composure unraveled into something raw and ugly. The whiskey fumes rolling off him mix with the hospital's antiseptic smell, creating something that makes my pregnant stomach revolt.
"There she is!" His laugh is broken glass. "Lena Cruz, the angel of mercy. Except you're not an angel, are you? You're carrying a monster's baby!"
The words echo through the suddenly silent ER. I feel Zane's muscles coil beside me, ready to destroy Nathan in front of everyone. My hand finds his arm—not here, not in my sanctuary, even if it's already contaminated.
"You're drunk, Nathan." My voice comes out steady, professional—the same tone I use with combative patients. "You need to leave."
"Leave?" He stumbles closer, and I smell the destruction of everything he thought he was—controlled, superior, my savior. "I documented every bruise, every 'fall.' Waited for you to trust me enough to leave. But you weren't running from danger—you were running to it. Choosing it. Begging for it."
The slap happens before I decide to move. The crack of palm against cheek cuts through the ER, leaving silence that throbs like a wound. Nathan's head snaps sideways, and when he looks back, there's something satisfied in his eyes, like I've finally proven what I really am.
"I never needed saving," I tell him, the words rising from somewhere deep. "Not from you, not from anyone."
Security finally moves, Dave and Marcus approaching Nathan with the careful respect reserved for doctors, even drunk ones. Nathan laughs as they reach for him—the sound sharp enough to draw blood.
"Catherine Walsh is waiting for you," he calls as they guide him toward the exit. "Has been since she heard about your... situation. You think this was your sanctuary? You've lost everything, Lena. Your family, your career, your future. All for him. Was his cock worth your entire life?"
Zane moves then—violent poetry in motion—but I catch him with both hands against his chest, feeling his heart hammering against my palms. "Please. Not here. Don't make it worse."
But it's already worse. The entire ER has witnessed my humiliation. By tomorrow, every department will know that Lena Cruz chose a killer's bed over a doctor's ring.
