It’s Amara.
“Hey—”
“Ransome?” she whimpers as soon as I pick up. “Thank God you fucking answered.”
She sounds scared, agitated. Seconds away from a panic attack.
My hackles go up. Amara may be a lot of things, but she has never been the kind of woman to make a big fuss about nothing.
And my instincts tell me that, whatever this is, it’s not nothing.
“What is it?”
“I need you to come home. Now.”
25
AMARA
Relief crashes over me when he picks up.
I wasn’t expecting it. It was a last-ditch effort. Knowing Ransome, he’s busy running his empire. Or playing husband to Jenica. Probably both.
But he answers me anyway.
“It’s the baby,” I blurt. “Something’s wrong.”
“I’m on my way.”
I can literally hear his feet moving. There’s background chatter, the easy notes of classical music in the air, but it all fades as he strides out of wherever the hell he is.
He’s coming. He’s rushing over.
But will he be fast enough?
“Should I call 911?” I realize I’m panicking, but between the stabbing pain in my abdomen and what I saw out my window just moments ago, it’s fair to say I’m not at my best. “I don’tknow what’s going on, but it really hurts. Like, my belly keeps tightening up and my back is spasming and?—”
“No. Don’t call 911.” I hear a car door slam. “I’m nearby. I’ll take you to the hospital myself.”
“What about Jenica?” I ask. I know what he is. I know who he’s with. Because, even to this day, I know his schedule. And today is an annual charity gala.
“Jenica’s a big girl. She can figure it out.”
If I wasn’t in so much pain, I’d get a little bit of an ego boost about that.
But Iamin pain. Excruciating pain that comes and goes in waves, and all I can think is that I’m in early labor.
“I’m scared, Ransome,” I sob into the phone. “Oh God!” I double over on the floor as another wave rolls over my body.
“What is it?” he asks. “Amara, what’s happening?”
“I don’t know!”
I’m doing everything in my power to breathe through it. But breathing isn’t easy when your spine feels like it’s about to snap in half.
“Do you think it was the massage?” he asks. “Do you think they triggered something?”
“It was a prenatal massage,” I say. “I don’t know. I don’t—” I am cut off as the pain rips through me, and all I can do is whimper.
