She paused, just for a breath. The soft yellow light from upstairs fell across her face, revealing the dark circles from sleepless nights and the faint curve of her belly beneath her pale blue uniform.
Inside the room, Oliver’s crying split the silence. It wasn’t fussing—it was panic, raw and desperate. Emily’s heart reacted instantly. Her hand brushed over her stomach in a reflex she didn’t think about anymore.
“Mr. Carter…” she whispered.
No answer. Only the baby’s cries.
She opened the door slowly. The room was modern and spacious, lit by the cool glow of a night lamp—but the sight stopped her cold.
Oliver lay in the crib, diaper undone, sheets stained, legs dirty. A bottle had tipped over, milk creeping across the rug. And beside the crib sat Daniel Carter, slumped in an armchair, his tailored suit wrinkled, tie loose, hair a mess. His hands pressed into his face as his shoulders shook.
“Oh God…” Emily breathed.
Daniel looked up sharply. His eyes were red—not from lack of sleep, but from something broken deeper inside.
“I told you not to come in,” he snapped hoarsely. “Get out.”
Her stomach twisted. But Oliver cried louder, and instinct overruled fear.