Blake's Late Confession

The ropes fell away, but the pain didn't. Blood soaked through my maternity dress as Eleanor's cold eyes assessed me like a problem to be solved rather than a human being in agony. She was already on her phone, no doubt reporting to Blake that his plan was falling apart.

"I need to get to a hospital," I gasped, doubling over as another contraction seized me.

Eleanor's thin lips curved into what might have been a smile on anyone else. "Of course, Mrs. Winters. I'll arrange for the driver immediately."

But as she turned away, I caught the whispered instructions into her phone: "...delay her as much as possible. Use whatever means necessary."

In that moment, maternal instinct overrode everything—pain, fear, even common sense. While Eleanor's back was turned, I stumbled toward the forest path, my bare feet finding purchase on the rocky ground. Each step sent shockwaves of agony through my body, but the alternative was unthinkable.

My baby would not be sacrificed for Blake's obsession.

The path down the cliff was treacherous. Rocks cut into my bare feet, leaving bloody footprints behind me. I grabbed at tree branches for support, the bark scraping my palms raw. Another contraction hit, and I collapsed against a pine tree, biting my arm to keep from screaming.

"Don't come yet," I whispered to my belly. "Please, just hold on a little longer."

When the pain subsided enough, I pushed on. The trail seemed endless, winding down the mountainside with cruel indifference to my condition. Blood trickled down my legs, marking my desperate journey. I could hear shouting behind me—Eleanor must have discovered my escape.

Finally, through the trees, I glimpsed the highway. Just a hundred more yards. Fifty. Twenty.

A woman in hiking gear appeared on the trail ahead, her expression morphing from pleasant curiosity to horror as she took in my bloodied appearance.

"Oh my God!" she screamed, stumbling backward. "Are you—"

I didn't stop to explain. The highway was right there, cars speeding past. I lurched onto the shoulder, waving my arms frantically. A blue sedan swerved, nearly hitting me before screeching to a halt.

The driver, a middle-aged man with a Seattle Seahawks cap, rolled down his window. His eyes widened at the sight of me—hair wild, face contorted with pain, dress soaked with blood.

"Jesus Christ, lady! What happened to you?"

"Hospital," I gasped, another contraction building. "Please. My baby."

He hesitated only a second before leaning across to open the passenger door. "Get in. Seattle General's ten minutes away."

I collapsed into the seat, leaving a smear of blood on the upholstery. "I'm sorry," I whispered, but he was already accelerating, his speedometer climbing well above the limit.

"Don't apologize. Just hold on." His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "What's your name?"

"Catherine," I managed between panted breaths. "Catherine Winters."

He glanced at me, then back at the road. "I'm Dave. You're going to be okay, Catherine. We're almost there."

But I knew we weren't almost there. Not in any way that mattered.

The hospital loomed ahead, its emergency entrance a beacon of false hope. Dave screeched to a stop at the ambulance bay, ignoring a security guard's shouts as he helped me from the car.

"She's having a baby!" he yelled. "She needs help now!"

The ER was chaos—nurses rushing past, phones ringing, monitors beeping. But beneath it all was an undercurrent of excitement that had nothing to do with me.

"The Winters baby," I heard someone say. "OR 3 is prepped for Mrs. Isabella's cesarean."

A nurse finally approached, clipboard in hand. Her eyes widened at my appearance, but her voice remained professionally detached. "Ma'am, what seems to be the problem?"

"I'm in labor," I gasped, clutching my belly as another contraction ripped through me. "I'm bleeding. Please, I need an obstetrician."

She glanced at her clipboard, then back at me with a frown. "Are you registered? Do you have insurance?"

"I'm Catherine Winters," I said, desperation making my voice crack. "Please, my baby is coming now."

Something flickered across her face—recognition, perhaps, but not of me. Of the name. Winters. But instead of helping, she stepped back slightly.

"Wait here. I need to check something."

As she walked away, I caught her murmuring to another nurse: "Isn't Mrs. Winters already in OR 3?"

I slid down the wall to the floor, blood pooling beneath me, as the hospital staff bustled around, preparing for the birth of Isabella's child—the heir to the Winters fortune—while I faded into invisibility before their eyes.