Chapter 8 - The Awakening
The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and fresh lilies. Sunlight poured through the large glass windows, reflecting off the pristine blanket of snow that covered the hospital courtyard below.
I woke up to the steady, rhythmic beeping of a monitor and a heavy, warm weight pressing against my right hand.
I blinked against the glare. My throat felt like sandpaper. My body ached with a deep, bruised soreness that reminded me instantly of the terrifying hours in that frozen car.
The baby.
Panic surged through me like an electric shock. I tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in my abdomen pinned me back against the pillows.
"Shh, easy, Savannah. Lie back. You're safe."
The voice was rough, cracked, completely stripped of its usual smooth authority.
I turned my head. Sitting in a rigid plastic chair beside the bed was Roman.
He looked unrecognizable. The immaculate, impeccably groomed man who had left our kitchen on Christmas Eve was gone. His dark hair was wild and uncombed. Deep, purple bruises of exhaustion circled his bloodshot eyes. He had three days of dark stubble along his jaw, and his charcoal suit was rumpled, stained with dried mud and snow salt around the cuffs.
And beside him, resting inside a clear plastic bassinet beneath a warming light, was our daughter.
A tear spilled down my temple into my hair. "Is she...?"
"She's perfect," Roman whispered, his voice trembling so hard he could barely form the syllables. He stood up, leaning over the bassinet with infinite care. He lifted the tiny bundle, swaddled in hospital cotton and a tiny knit cap, and placed her gently against my chest.
The moment the baby felt my skin, her tiny mouth rooted against my hospital gown, letting out a soft, contented sigh.
"Her lungs are completely clear," Roman said, sitting on the edge of the mattress, his eyes never leaving the baby. "She weighs six pounds, two ounces. The doctors called her a miracle. They said... they said if you hadn't kept her inside your coat, skin-to-skin..."
He couldn't finish the sentence. A harsh, choked breath caught in his chest.
I looked down at the tiny, perfect face. She had Roman’s dark lashes and my nose. "Grace," I whispered.
"Grace," Roman repeated, nodding brokenly.
I closed my eyes, the warmth of my daughter grounding me. But as the initial rush of relief settled, the memory of that Christmas Eve terrace returned, sharp and cold.
I looked at Roman. "Why are you here, Roman? Why aren't you with Celeste?"
Roman flinched as if I had struck him across the face.
"Savannah, please listen to me," he began, reaching for my hand.
I pulled my hand back, tucking it under the blanket. "Don't touch me. You chose to walk out that door. You chose to go to her while your pregnant wife asked you to stay. I saw you, Roman. I drove downtown. I stood across the street and watched you holding her on that terrace."
Roman went completely pale, his eyes widening in horrified comprehension. "You were there?"
"I saw everything," I said, my voice steady despite the ache in my chest. "You held her the exact way you used to hold me. You had Dante standing guard. So don't play the devoted husband now because an ambulance brought me back."
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Roman dropped his head into his hands. When he looked up, his eyes were wet with unshed tears.
"I am going to tell you the truth, Savannah," he said, his voice raw. "Every ugly, disgusting detail of it. And when I'm done, if you still want me to walk out that door and never see you again... I will sign whatever papers you put in front of me. But you deserve to know what almost killed us."
