Straight through the double doors.
And stopped dead.
Violet lay in the bed, sheets twisted around her swollen belly, her face slick with sweat and tears.
Her hands trembled as she clutched at the fabric, her breathing uneven, strained.
Paolo stood at her side, holding her hand tightly, his expression tense but controlled.
Three nurses hovered nearby.
Monitors beeped steadily.
Violet’s eyes found mine the moment I stepped in.
Relief flooded her face.
“Vincenzo...” she whispered, her voice fragile. “I’ve been waiting for you...”
Her grip on the sheets tightened as a wave of pain hit her—her body tensing, breath hitching.
“Please—stay with me,” she gasped. “I’m about to deliver...”
One of the nurses stepped forward immediately, her posture straight, voice calm in that practiced, clinical way that came from years of seeing chaos and knowing how to survive it.
“Mr. Orsini,” she began carefully, “she’s been in active labor for over an hour. She’s progressing well.”
Her eyes flicked—briefly—to Violet, then back to me.
“The presence of the partner often accelerates dilation and reduces perceived pain. Studies show laboring mothers with emotional support progress up to thirty percent faster in the second stage.”
A pause.
“You being here could make all the difference.”
Violet reached out toward me, her hand trembling.
“Vincenzo...” Her voice broke. “Please...”
Something inside me tightened.
My chest. My throat. My pulse.
Images of Elena, frozen and still in that cold room, slammed into me—and the tiny body cradled against my chest, so small, so lifeless, so fragile that even now, thinking about it made my grip instinctively tighten.
My mind wasn’t in this room.
It was back there. In that frozen hell.
With her. With the baby.
With the consequences of what I’d done.
I turned on my heel and walked out.
No explanation. No hesitation.
Just—
