He turned his tablet toward me. Adrian’s signature was bold and unmistakable. Beneath it, my printed name. Executed.
“You are no longer covered under Mr. Brooks’ insurance. Financial responsibility must be reassessed. Decisions regarding neonatal care are under review pending clarification of custody.”
“They’re my children,” I whispered.
“That is under legal evaluation.”
After he left, they moved me to a smaller room. No window. A thinner blanket. A stack of financial forms blurred through my tears.
Later, they wheeled me past the NICU. Three fragile bodies. Wires. Rhythmic, uneven breathing. I pressed my hand to the glass as we passed.
That was the moment I understood: I hadn’t just been divorced. I had been discarded.
Adrian Brooks stood in his penthouse overlooking the city skyline, sunlight pouring through glass walls. He straightened his silk tie.
“It’s done,” he told Vanessa over the phone.
“I knew you’d handle it,” she said softly. “You always choose ambition.”
“I choose what’s necessary.”
Meanwhile, Dr. Claire Whitman studied the files at the end of the ICU corridor.
Three premature infants flagged for financial review.