That afternoon, I forced myself out of bed. They wheeled me past the NICU again—this time on purpose. I begged the orderly to stop, even if only for a moment. He hesitated when he saw the desperation in my eyes, then slowed down.

Then the pain returned: a sharp stab in my abdomen that forced a gasp out of me.

A nurse hurried to my side.

“Easy,” she whispered. “You’ve been through a lot.”

“My babies,” I managed, my voice raw. “Where are my babies?”

The nurse hesitated for a fraction of a second—long enough for terror to spear through my chest.

“They’re in the NICU. Alive. Fighting. They’re very small, but stable for now.”

Relief hit me so hard the room seemed to spin. Hot tears slid down my temples.

“Can I see them?”

The nurse looked away.

“There are… some things we need to review first.”

A man I didn’t recognize walked in. Not a doctor. He held a tablet and wore an ID badge that read Administration.

“Mrs. Whitmore,” he began—then corrected himself without emotion. “Ms. Parker. Room 202.”

The correction hurt more than the surgery.

“There’s been a change in your marital status,” he continued, reading like he was following a script. “Your divorce was finalized early this morning.”

I stared at him, convinced the morphine was making me hallucinate.

“That’s not possible. I was unconscious.”

“Yes,” he said, tapping the screen. “But the filing was valid. Pre-signed contingencies.”

My heart began to hammer.

“Alexander didn’t—”