Page 30 of One Little Mistake

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I snap, my voice rising. “A few days ago, you practically tried to hand me this kid to cover your own screw-up—now that I’m ready to take him, you’re demanding a paternity test?”

“Keep your voice down, Mr. Taylor,” the head of the maternity ward cuts me off sharply. “For the record, I would’ve asked for documentation last time too, before letting you walk out of here with an infant. Make no mistake about that. And second—what mistake, exactly, are you referring to? Miss Hale was brought in when it was already too late for a C-section. That wasn’t our call. She likely ignored the early signs of labor, and by the time she got here, we were out of time.”

“That’s bullshit,” I spit out. “And you know it. Keep pushing, and I swear you’ll have inspectors crawling all over this place by next week.”

“I suggest you calm down and get the paternity test done,” she says with a sugar-sweet smile that doesn’tt reach her eyes. “If you’re telling the truth and this child is yours, why so defensive? You were the one begging us to hold on to the baby a few more days—so I’m sure you can wait a few more now.”

Damn it.

I try to keep a straight face, hiding my disappointment, but in my head—I’ve already lost this battle. We lock eyes, irritated and unyielding, and I’m ready to say a dozen sharp things when the shrill ring of her office phone slices through the tension.

“Yes?” she answers curtly, her gaze still fixed on me. “Really? And her condition? … Uh-huh. Right. No, but he’s in my office right now. Yes, of course.”

The way she looks at me shifts slightly, and I immediately know—it’s about Erin. My chest tightens, heart skipping a beat. I brace myself for the worst.

“She’s awake,” she says flatly. “Congratulations. You’ll be able to take the child home—with the mother. Not today, obviously, but soon enough.”

“What?” I blink, not sure I heard her right.

“Your wife woke up,” Mrs. Gray repeats louder, lacing her words with sarcasm, clearly calling my bluff about the whole father act. And just like that, it’s as if a mountain rolls off my chest. Breathing suddenly becomes easier.

CHAPTER 12

Erin

Waking up feels… strange. Like I’ve been transported back three years to the morning after my best friend’s birthday party—when we all swore off drinking for life and couldn’t even look at alcohol without getting queasy.

It feels like something is slowly pushing me toward consciousness, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t get my eyelids to open. Darkness wraps around my thoughts, pulling me back under, and I drift off again.

The second time I wake up, it’s like being hit over the head. My eyes snap open, and I find myself staring at a yellowed ceiling. I lie there for a few minutes, trying to stop the room from spinning, trying to focus my vision. There’s an annoying beeping above me, and something foreign is lodged in my nose. I try to reach for my face, but I can’t. I’m so weak I can barely move my fingers.

Inhale. Exhale. Again.

I close my eyes and open them, praying this is just a nightmare. But then I realize something terrifying—I don’t feel the baby moving.

For the past few weeks, my baby boy had been wide awake almost nonstop—kicking, twisting, keeping me up night after night. I’d grown so used to that feeling that now, the silence inside me is what feels foreign.

My trembling fingers reach for my now-flat stomach. A cold wave of panic crashes over me. He’s not there. I have no idea where I am or how I got here. My memory is blank. I try to sit up, but the room tilts, black dots dance in my vision, and a sharp ringing pierces my ears.

I fight it, but the darkness is stronger, and I think I’m blacking out again.

The third time I wake up, it feels like I’ve been asleep for days. My head is heavy, my body limp, but my mind is finally clear.

In a flash, everything from last night comes rushing back. The strange man who insisted the apartment was his. The labor.

I was scheduled for a C-section next week—my son was supposed to be born on February fourteenth, not a day earlier, and definitely not through natural delivery.

I try to sit up, to look around the room, to spot a crib—anything—to make sure he’s okay. I don’t even want to think about the alternative. Of course he’s fine. Of course he’s sleeping peacefully right now.

But I can’t lift myself. I have no strength. My arm feels numb, especially where the IV is taped to my skin. The best I can do is turn my head. That’s when I notice there’s another woman in the room, lying in the bed beside mine. She’s wearing an oxygen mask. Her breathing is labored, and the steady beeping from the monitor must be tracking her heart rate.

There’s no baby. No crib. No signs that a child has ever even been in this room.

Where am I?

Where’s my baby?

What happened to him?

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