They wheeled me past the NICU again, this time because I begged them to. I asked the orderly to stop, just for a moment. He saw something in my eyes—desperation, maybe—and slowed the chair.
The divorce papers had dried hours earlier in a hospital hallway that reeked of disinfectant and something metallic beneath it. Behind the surgical doors, I had been unconscious, stitched back together after an emergency C-section that saved three premature babies and nearly cost me my life.
Machines had beeped steadily. Red lights blinked in the ICU darkness. A nurse had whispered a prayer under her breath while watching my unstable vitals.
Outside, Adrian Brooks stood in a tailored Italian suit, adjusting his cufflinks with steady hands. He took the pen from his attorney and signed his name without hesitation.
Ten minutes before that, my heart had stopped.
Adrian hadn’t asked whether his children were breathing on their own. He hadn’t asked if I would wake up. He asked only one question.
“How soon is it finalized?”
The lawyer answered quietly. Immediately.
A doctor stepped into the corridor, exhaustion carved into her face.
“Mr. Brooks, your wife is in critical condition. She needs—”