I gasped, a strangled, wet sound escaping my lips. My vision tunneled, the edges of the room turning fuzzy and dark. I dropped the bucket. The soapy water splashed violently across the immaculate floor, soaking the bottom of my maternity pants.
I collapsed against the side of the sofa, clutching my swollen stomach. The tearing sensation intensified, radiating down my thighs. And then, I felt it. A sudden, terrifying rush of warmth.
I looked down. Bright crimson blood was rapidly soaking through the light grey fabric of my pants, pooling on the hardwood I had just scrubbed.
“Oh God,” I whimpered, the reality of the horror crashing into my brain. “Oh my God.”
Helen finally looked up from her magazine. She didn’t jump up. She didn’t scream for help. Her eyes widened, not in concern for me or her grandchild, but in profound irritation.
“Maya! What are you doing?!” she snapped, pointing a trembling finger at the floor. “The water! The blood! You’re ruining the finish on the Brazilian cherry wood! Leo is going to be furious!”
I ignored her. Panic, cold and absolute, seized my chest. I fumbled blindly in the pocket of my cardigan with shaking, bloodstained fingers and pulled out my phone.