He had built a medical fortress around me.
The elite obstetric team he hired rotated shifts so someone was always available.
High-risk pregnancy specialists reviewed every lab result.
A neonatal team was on standby months before delivery.
Ultrasounds were done regularly — tracking growth, heart rate, placenta positioning.
Blood pressure monitored daily.
Bloodwork drawn often.
They had prepared for complications.
Prepared for emergencies.
Prepared for anything.
A cesarean section had always been offered as the safest option — controlled, predictable, medically managed.
But I refused.
I wanted to experience this birth naturally.
Not because I rejected modern medicine.
But because this time —
I wanted to feel the full weight of bringing life into the world without surgical intervention.
I wanted to take back something that had once been stolen from me.
My body.
My process.
My birth.
After everything that had happened before — I needed this moment to belong to me.
Now I lay in the brightly lit labor room of the private hospital.
The space was sterile.
Cold.
Functional.
White walls.
Metal equipment.
Monitors humming quietly.
The faint scent of antiseptic mixed with the metallic smell of medical tools.
It should have felt clinical.
