Page 27 of Bound in Matrimony

Ice floods my veins. "What's wrong with my daughter?"

Both doctors turn to me, and I see the moment Dr. Winters decides not to sugarcoat the situation. "Your daughter's heart rate showed a brief deceleration during that last contraction. It's back to normal now, but we'll be monitoring very closely."

"What does that mean?" The calm in my voice is deceptive, masking the primal fear clawing at my insides.

"It could mean nothing. Brief decelerations happen during labor. But if it continues or worsens, we may need to consider a cesarean section."

Seraphina's hand tightens in mine. "Is she in danger?" Her voice is steadier than I expected, her concern for our child overriding her exhaustion.

"Not at the moment," Dr. Winters assures her. "But we're taking every precaution."

The next thirty minutes are the longest of my life. I stand guard beside Seraphina, watching the monitors with predatory intensity, tracking our daughter's heartbeat as if by sheer will I can keep it strong and steady. When it dips again during another contraction, the room erupts into controlled chaos.

"We need to prep for a C-section," Dr. Winters announces. "The baby is showing signs of distress."

"Do it," I command, though no one is waiting for my permission. "Whatever needs to happen, do it now."

Nurses move efficiently around us, preparing Seraphina for surgery. An orderly appears with a wheelchair to transport her to the operating room.

"Sir, you'll need to wait outside while we?—"

"No." The word comes out like a gunshot. "I'm staying with my wife."

"Hospital policy requires?—"

"I don't give a damn about hospital policy." I step closer to the man, using the full advantage of my height and the intensity that has made business rivals back down for decades. "I've purchased enough of this hospital to rewrite policy as I see fit. My wife doesn't leave my sight. Is that understood?"

Dr. Winters intervenes before the situation escalates further. "Mr. Vance can come to the operating room. He'll need to change into sterile attire, but fathers are permitted during C-sections."

The relief on Seraphina's face is worth any battle I'd have to fight. I lean down, pressing my forehead to hers. "I'm not leaving you. Not for a second."

They dress me in surgical scrubs and lead us to the operating room, a gleaming space filled with equipment and personnel. As they transfer Seraphina to the operating table, a nurse tries to direct me to a stool near her head, away from the surgical field.

"Her hand," I insist. "I need to hold her hand."

The anesthesiologist eyes me warily. "You'll need to stay out of the way of the surgical team."

"I'll be wherever my wife needs me to be." My tone leaves no room for argument.

Throughout the preparations—the draping of sterile cloths, the administration of additional anesthesia, the assembly of instruments—I maintain my position at Seraphina's side, my fingers intertwined with hers. They've erected a screen so she can't see the surgery, but I could view the procedure if I wanted to. I don't. My focus remains entirely on her face, on being her anchor in this storm.

"Are you afraid?" she whispers, her eyes finding mine above the surgical mask they've given me.

The question pierces straight through the armor I've maintained, the facade of controlled strength. With anyone else, I would deny it. With her, I can only offer truth.

"Terrified," I admit, the word barely audible. "But not for myself."

Her smile is tired but genuine. "Our daughter is stubborn. Like her father."

"Strong," I correct her, brushing my thumb across her knuckles. "Like her mother."

The surgery begins, and I feel Seraphina's hand tighten in mine as she experiences the strange sensations of the procedure. Not pain—they've numbed her completely—but pressure, movement, the surreal awareness of being operated on while fully conscious.

"Talk to me," she requests. "Distract me."

So I do. I tell her about the nursery waiting at home, though she's seen it a hundred times. I describe the trust fund I've established for our daughter, the educational opportunities I've already arranged, the security measures implemented to protect her from the moment of her birth. Normal fathers might talkabout sports or music lessons, but I am what I am—a man obsessed with securing what matters.

"She'll have everything," I promise. "Everything I didn't have. Everything you deserve. I'll?—"

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