My Husband Gave My Baby Away

The marble floor was cold. That was the first thing I noticed. Not the pain—not yet—but the cold seeping through my dress, through my skin, into the bones of my hip where I'd landed.

I was lying on the floor of the Stephens penthouse. Five months pregnant. And Dane was standing six feet away with his hand still raised from shoving me.

"Ashlyn." Yasmin's voice floated down from somewhere above. Soft. Breathy. Concerned in that practiced way she had. "Oh my God, are you—"

"Don't." I didn't recognize my own voice. It came out flat. Empty.

The pain arrived then. A deep, twisting cramp that rolled through my abdomen and took my breath. I pressed my palm against the floor and tried to push myself up. My other hand went instinctively to my stomach.

Dane still hadn't moved.

I looked up at him. His face was pale, his eyes wide, but he didn't kneel down. He didn't reach for me. He stood there with Yasmin half-hidden behind his shoulder, her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

"You pushed me," I said.

He blinked. "You were—" He stopped. Started again. "It was an accident. You were going after Yasmin, and I—"

"You pushed me."

Another cramp. Sharper this time. I curled forward, gasping.

"Dane, call someone." Yasmin's voice had gone higher. Almost shrill. "She needs a doctor."

Finally, he moved. He pulled out his phone, but his hands were shaking so badly it took him three tries to unlock it. I watched him fumble with it and felt something inside me go very still. Very quiet.

This was the man I'd spent twenty years loving. The man whose coffee order I knew by heart, whose shirts I'd picked up from the dry cleaner every Thursday, whose mother had destroyed my drum kit when I was sixteen because it wasn't suitable for a future Stephens bride.

He couldn't even dial 911 without Yasmin telling him to hurry.

The paramedics came. They asked questions I answered automatically. Yes, five months. No, no bleeding yet. Yes, the pain was getting worse. They loaded me onto a stretcher. Dane followed, still on his phone. I heard him telling someone—his mother, probably—that there'd been "an incident" and he'd call back.

Yasmin stayed in the penthouse. I saw her watching from the doorway as they wheeled me out, her expression perfectly arranged into worry. Her hand rested on her flat stomach.

I closed my eyes.

---

The hospital room was white and cold and smelled like disinfectant. Dr. Renata Osei was a tall Black woman with silver streaks in her hair and no patience for bullshit. She examined me, ordered an ultrasound, and delivered the news in a voice that didn't soften anything.

"You've had a threatened miscarriage. The baby's heartbeat is present but weak. You're at significantly elevated risk for the remainder of the pregnancy."

I stared at the ceiling tiles. Counted them. Twelve across. Eight down.

"Is termination still an option?" My voice sounded distant. Clinical.

Dr. Osei's eyes narrowed slightly. "At twenty weeks, with your current condition, a termination would carry serious medical risks. I can't recommend it. You need bed rest, monitoring, and as little stress as possible."

I almost laughed. As little stress as possible. Right.

"Where's the father?" she asked.

I didn't answer.

She made a note on her chart. "I'll have the nurse check on you in an hour. Try to rest."

After she left, I lay there in the silence. The IV drip made a soft clicking sound. Outside the window, the Manhattan skyline glittered in the early evening light. Somewhere in that city, Dane was probably already back at the penthouse. Probably telling Yasmin it was all a misunderstanding. Probably straightening his cufflinks and checking his phone.

I reached for my purse. Found my phone. Stared at the screen for a long time.

Then I pulled up Ezra's number and hit call.

He answered on the second ring. "Ashlyn?" His voice was cautious. We hadn't spoken in months.

"I need to ask you something," I said. "And I need you to not ask me why."

A pause. "All right."

"If I sign over full legal custody of this baby to you when it's born, will you accept it?"

The silence stretched so long I thought the call had dropped.

"Ezra?"

"Are you safe right now?" His voice had gone very quiet. Very controlled.

"I'm in the hospital. Threatened miscarriage. I'm fine." I wasn't fine. "I just need to know. Will you do it?"

Another pause. Then: "Yes."

"Dane can't have any claim. None. That's the condition."

"I understand."

"Okay." I closed my eyes. "Okay."

"I'm getting on the next flight," Ezra said. "Don't sign anything until I get there."

He hung up.

I set the phone on the bed beside me and stared at the ceiling again. Twelve across. Eight down. The IV drip clicked. The baby moved, a small flutter against my ribs.

I pressed my hand to my stomach and felt nothing.

---

Dane arrived three hours later. I heard him before I saw him—his voice in the hallway, smooth and authoritative, asking which room I was in. He walked in still wearing the same suit from earlier. His hair was perfect. His cufflinks gleamed.

"Ashlyn." He stopped at the foot of the bed. "How are you feeling?"

I looked at him. Really looked at him. The sharp jaw. The expensive watch. The faint impatience in his eyes that he thought he was hiding.

"The baby's fine," I said.

Relief flickered across his face. "Good. That's good." He cleared his throat. "Look, about earlier—"

"You pushed me."

"It was an accident. You were upset, you were going after Yasmin, and I just—" He stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. "We'll discuss this when you're feeling better."

"There's nothing to discuss."

He frowned. "You're exhausted. You've been through a trauma. Let's not make any decisions right now."

His phone buzzed. He glanced at it. Typed something. Looked back at me.

"Did you ask what the doctor said?" I asked quietly.

He blinked. "You just told me. The baby's fine."

"I said the baby's heartbeat is present. I didn't say fine."

Another buzz. He silenced it this time, but his hand stayed on the phone.

"What do you need?" he asked. "I can have someone bring you things. Clothes, books, whatever."

"I don't need anything."

He straightened his cufflinks. It was a tell I'd learned years ago. He did it when he was about to say something he knew would cause conflict.

"I think you should stay at the estate for a while," he said. "My mother can arrange for private nursing care. You'll be more comfortable there."

"No."

His frown deepened. "Ashlyn—"

"I said no."

We stared at each other. The IV drip clicked. Somewhere down the hall, a machine beeped.

Finally, he sighed. "We'll talk about this tomorrow. Get some rest."

He left.

I lay there in the white room, in the cold bed, and counted ceiling tiles until the numbers stopped meaning anything at all.