Chapter 9 - The Delivery Room
A stern-faced head nurse intercepted him in the hallway, taking in his soaked clothes, his wild eyes, and the sheer desperation radiating from him.
"You're the husband?"
"Where is she?" Grant choked out, his voice cracking. "Is she alive? Please, tell me she's alive."
"She’s in Recovery Room 4," the nurse said, her tone softening with a sudden wave of clinical pity. "The surgery was difficult. She lost a great deal of blood, but our surgical team managed to stabilize her. Your son was delivered thirty minutes ago. He’s in the neonatal intensive care unit."
Grant fell back against the corridor wall, sliding down until his knees hit the linoleum. He covered his face with his trembling hands, weeping openly, his shoulders shaking with great, wracking sobs of unadulterated relief.
Ten minutes later, dressed in sterile hospital scrubs, Grant stepped quietly into Room 4.
The room was dimly lit, the only sound the rhythmic, reassuring beep of the cardiac monitor and the soft hiss of supplemental oxygen. Hannah lay in the narrow hospital bed, her face pale, her lips chapped, dark hollows bruised beneath her eyes. Her dark hair was damp with sweat, clinging to her forehead.
She looked fragile. Yet, to Grant, she looked like the only sacred thing left in the universe.
He crossed the room on silent feet, moving as though any sudden disturbance might shatter her into dust. He knelt beside the edge of the bed.
Slowly, reverently, he reached out and took her limp hand. Her skin was cool to the touch. He pressed her knuckles against his lips, his tears soaking into her hospital wristband.
"Hannah," he whispered brokenly. "I'm here. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."
Hannah’s eyelids fluttered open. She looked at him through a haze of anesthesia and exhaustion. Her gaze was unfocused at first, but then she recognized him.
There was no anger in her face. Only a quiet, boundless wonder.
"Grant?" she breathed, her voice a fragile rasp.
"I'm here, sweetheart. I'm right here."
"Did you... did you see him?"
Grant shook his head, pressing his forehead against her palm. "Not yet. I had to see you first. I had to make sure you were breathing."
A faint, tired tear tracked down Hannah’s temple, disappearing into her hairline. "He was early, Grant. He was so small. They took him away before I could hold him."
"He's going to be fine," Grant promised, his voice thick with an emotion he had never allowed himself to feel in all his forty-two years. "I swear to you on my life, Hannah, he’s going to be fine. We’re going to give him everything. But first, you have to heal. You have to let me take care of you."
Hannah looked at him, searching his hollowed, tear-stained face. She saw the devastation in him—not the controlled, terrifying boss of Manhattan, but a ruined man who had crawled through hell just to sit on the floor beside her.
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"Why are you here, Grant?" she whispered.
"Because home isn't Italy," Grant wept, kissing her fingers over and over again. "Home isn't Westchester. Home is wherever you are, Hannah. And if you spend the rest of your life hating me, I will spend the rest of my life standing outside your door, making sure you and our boy never feel cold again."
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