“Emma, I’m Dr. Bennett. We believe you may have internal bleeding, and your baby’s condition is deteriorating. We need to deliver him immediately.”
“Is he going to live?”
“We’re going to do everything we can.”
“Please don’t let him die.”
The doctor took my hand.
“We’re going to fight for him.”
As the team rushed me toward surgery, I caught one last glimpse of Gabriel standing beside the nurses’ station. A man in a dark suit was speaking urgently to him, holding a phone against his ear.
Gabriel looked up.
For an instant, our eyes met.
Then he turned toward the man and said something I couldn’t hear.
The man’s face went pale.
That was the last thing I saw before the operating-room doors closed.
When I woke, the first thing I noticed was the silence.
No helicopter. No wind. No shouting.
Only the soft, rhythmic beeping of a monitor.
My mouth was dry, my chest hurt, and my left wrist was wrapped in a thick brace. I tried to sit up, but a nurse hurried toward me.
“Easy, honey. Don’t move too quickly.”
“My baby.”
She smiled gently.
“Your little boy is alive.”
I started crying before she finished the sentence.
“He’s premature and needs intensive care, but he’s breathing on his own with assistance. He’s a fighter.”
“Can I see him?”
“As soon as the doctors clear you to move.”
I caught her sleeve.
“My husband. Does he know I’m here?”
Her smile disappeared.
“Your father has asked us to restrict access to your room.”
“My father?”
She nodded toward the doorway.
Gabriel stood there, holding a small paper cup of coffee he had apparently forgotten to drink.
He looked exhausted. His silver hair was disheveled, and his expensive coat had a dark stain near the sleeve.
He set the coffee down.
“May I come in?”
I looked away.
“You said you were my father.”
“I am.”
“My mother told me you were dead.”
“I know.”
“Then why weren’t you there?”
He flinched.
It was a small movement, but I saw it.
“Because I was told that you and your mother had died in a car accident when you were less than a year old.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“My investigators found a burial record under your mother’s name. There was a death certificate. There were witnesses who claimed they had attended the funeral.”
“And you believed them?”
“I was thirty years old, Emma. I had money, lawyers, and access to people who could have investigated further. I also had someone telling me that the woman I loved and our child were dead.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“No,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t.”
He pulled a chair beside my bed.
“I should have searched harder. I should have questioned everything. I have spent twenty-seven years regretting that I didn’t.”
I wanted to hate him for his absence.
But I couldn’t ignore the fact that he had climbed down a frozen mountainside to reach me.
“Where is my son?”
“In the neonatal intensive care unit. The doctors say he needs close monitoring, but they are cautiously optimistic.”
I closed my eyes in relief.
“Thank you.”
Gabriel bowed his head.
“You don’t owe me gratitude.”
A shadow crossed the doorway.
A uniformed woman stood outside, speaking to the nurse. She carried a folder beneath one arm and wore a badge clipped to her belt.
“Mrs. Carter?” she asked.
My stomach tightened.
Gabriel stood immediately.
“Detective Ortiz. She’s just regained consciousness.”
“I understand.” The detective looked at me. “I’m Detective Maya Ortiz. I need to ask you some questions about your fall.”
“My husband did it.”
She opened her folder.
“Michael Carter reported you missing at approximately 4:20 p.m. He stated that you lost your footing during a hike and fell over the cliff.”
“I didn’t lose my footing.”
“According to his statement, he tried to reach you but couldn’t safely get down the slope.”
“He never tried to save me.”
The detective studied my face.
“Did you hear him say anything after you fell?”
I remembered his voice above me.
For fifty million dollars, she’d better have.
“Yes.”
I told her about the insurance policy and Ashley, his administrative assistant. I told her what I’d heard them say while I lay on the ledge.
Maya Ortiz stopped writing.
“Fifty million dollars?”
I nodded.
“Does your husband have a policy on your life?”
“I don’t know where he keeps the paperwork. He handles most of our finances.”
The detective exchanged a glance with Gabriel.
“What?” I demanded.
Gabriel hesitated.
Then he pulled his phone from his pocket and showed me a photograph of a document.
It was an insurance policy bearing my full name.
The death benefit was fifty million dollars.
The signature at the bottom looked like mine.
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