No Room for Your Regrets

Olivia's POV

The surgical staples across my lower belly burned with every shallow breath.

Bracing my right hand against the cold metal IV pole, I shuffled two inches across the linoleum floor. The nurse had left an infant care booklet on the bedside table, explaining that the NICU team was holding a parental care orientation at ten this morning. I had called Gabriel twice to tell him to be there.

When the door clicked open at eight, Gabriel walked in alone.

He wasn't carrying baby clothes or overnight essentials. Instead, he carried a heavy, embossed cream paper bag from Le Petit Marais, Charlotte’s favorite French patisserie on the Upper East Side. The rich aroma of warm almond croissants and espresso drifted past my untouched tray of congealed hospital oatmeal.

"You're out of bed," he said, setting the bag down on the rolling table. "The doctor said you shouldn't push yourself."

"The nurse said I need to walk if I want the catheter out," I answered, lowering myself back onto the edge of the mattress. My hospital gown parted slightly, revealing the dark yellow-and-purple bruise blooming across the back of my hand where the IV had blown out. "Did you read my message about the orientation? It’s our only chance to learn how to handle Ivy’s feeding tubes."

Gabriel didn't look at the booklet. He reached into his coat and pulled out a silver ring box, placing it next to the pastry bag.

"I talked to Charlotte over breakfast," he said smoothly. "She’s agreed to move into our guest bedroom starting tomorrow. Once you’re discharged, she can take over the heavy lifting with Ivy."

I stared at him, my knuckles white against the bed rail. "No."

"Charlotte can stay with us until you recover," he continued, as though I hadn't spoken. "You've lost two liters of blood, Olivia. You can't carry a laundry basket, let alone a medically fragile newborn. She wants to help."

"I said no, Gabriel."

"You're exhausted. You're not thinking clearly." He sighed, running a hand through his hair with an air of practiced patience. "The doctor warned me that postpartum hormone crashes make women paranoid and erratic. You're letting your jealousy dictate what's best for our child."

"I know exactly who I don't want near my daughter," I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my chest.

My gaze fell on the grease-stained logo of the bakery bag. Three days before my placenta tore, my blood pressure had spiked, leaving me dizzy and parched on the bathroom floor. I had texted Gabriel three times, begging him to bring home a bottle of electrolyte water from the corner bodega downstairs. He had texted back four hours later, saying his meetings ran long and he didn't have five minutes to spare.

Yet today, he had driven forty blocks out of his way to buy warm pastries for Charlotte before visiting his hospitalized wife.

He didn't lack the capacity to care for someone. He simply reserved that care for someone else.

The door swung open again, and Charlotte stepped inside.

She had washed away yesterday’s bridal drama, dressed in a soft beige cashmere cardigan with her hair pulled into a neat, low twist. In her manicured hands, she held a blue folder and a black ballpoint pen.

"Good morning, Olivia," Charlotte said, offering a small, compassionate smile. "I went down to the administrative desk on the ground floor to pick these up for you. I know how overwhelming everything must feel right now."

She crossed the room and placed a printed form on my lap.

"It's just a little paperwork, Olivia," she said gently. "If you sign it, I can participate in Ivy’s NICU training sessions with Gabriel and take shifts sitting with her so you can sleep."

I looked down at the header.

*Hospital Neonatal Intensive Care Unit – Additional Authorized Caregiver Application.*

Half the form was already filled out in neat, feminine script.

Under the field marked *Designated Caregiver Name*, someone had written *Charlotte Blake*.

Beside it, in the box marked *Relationship to Infant*, the word *Family* had been inked in bold strokes.

My gaze dropped to the bottom section, where the medical justification was meant to be noted. Written in Gabriel's sharp, architectural handwriting was a brief summary:

*Biological mother experienced severe intraoperative blood loss and remains physically compromised. Postpartum recovery prevents consistent bedside attendance. Caregiver designated as primary family support to ensure infant bonding requirements are met.*

The paper crinkled beneath my thumbs.

"Why does it say I'm unable to care for my own child?" I asked, looking straight at Gabriel.

"Because you're recovering from surgery," Gabriel answered without blinking. "The nurses need a clear chain of responsibility. If Ivy needs routine skin-to-skin care when you're stuck in bed, someone has to be authorized to be in that room."

"Recovery doesn't make me less of a mother," I said.

"Nobody is saying that," Charlotte chimed in softly, reaching out to rest her hand near my knee. "We just want what’s safest for Ivy. Gabriel told me how hard the surgery was. You shouldn't have to carry this burden alone when I have the time and energy to give her."

"Take your hand off my bed," I said.

Charlotte pulled back as if she had touched hot iron. Her hazel eyes instantly flooded with tears, and her chin trembled. "I'm only trying to help you, Olivia. Is this about the wedding? Are you punishing me because Julian left me?"

Gabriel stepped forward, his expression hardening. "Give me the pen, Olivia. Stop acting like this."

I didn't hand him the pen. Instead, I pressed the black tip hard against the paper and slashed three thick, jagged lines straight through Charlotte Blake's name. Then I crossed out the word *Family* until the paper tore under the nib.

"Stop trying to give her my place," I said, looking Gabriel dead in the eye.

"Your place?" Gabriel snapped, snatching the ruined paper from my lap. "Ivy needs people who can actually care for her, not someone wallowing in self-pity and spite."

"I'm her mother."

"Then start acting like one!" His voice cracked across the small room like a whip. "Charlotte is willing to put her entire life on hold to nurse our premature daughter because you can barely walk to the bathroom without crying. Having another person love your daughter isn't a crime. But if you can't even stand up to feed yourself, you have no business pretending you can raise a high-risk preemie on your own."

He reached for Charlotte’s elbow, pulling her flush against his side. Charlotte rested her forehead against his shoulder, letting out a soft, shuddering sob that made Gabriel’s jaw tighten with protective anger.

I looked at the silver ring box sitting beside Charlotte's breakfast.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry.

Reaching out, I shoved the ring box off the table. It tumbled to the floor with a hollow plastic clatter, rolling to a stop against Gabriel's leather shoes.

Then I reached above my head and pressed the red emergency call button on the wall.

A nurse entered thirty seconds later, taking in the scene with a practiced, cautious glance. "Is everything alright, Mrs. Mercer?"

"No," I said, pointing at the torn form in Gabriel's hand. "I am the biological mother of Ivy Mercer. I officially refuse to authorize Charlotte Blake as a secondary caregiver, visitor, or family representative. I want it noted in my daughter's chart immediately that no authorization bearing my name can be used to admit Charlotte without my direct, written consent."

The nurse glanced at Gabriel, then nodded firmly. "Understood. I will log that with the charge nurse and patient advocacy right away."

"Olivia, you're making a massive mistake," Gabriel warned in a low, furious murmur.

"Get out," I said. "Both of you."

Charlotte buried her face in his lapel, whispering something too quiet for me to hear. Gabriel gave me one last, cold glare, dropped the ruined form onto my bedside table, then wrapped his arm around her waist and ushered her out the door.

The moment the latch clicked shut, I picked up my phone.

With shaking fingers, I pulled up my messages and sent a short text to Rebecca Sloan, my family lawyer:

*Rebecca, I need an immediate consultation regarding temporary custody and maternal rights. Do not contact Gabriel. Please come to Mount Sinai this evening.*

Her reply came back three minutes later: *I'll be there at six.*

By five thirty, I had forced myself into a wheelchair and had an orderly roll me down to the third floor. I sat outside the glass doors of the NICU, watching through the viewing window as a nurse adjusted the tiny CPAP mask over Ivy’s nose.

"Mrs. Mercer?"

A woman in a navy suit carrying a black leather portfolio approached my chair. Her hospital ID badge read *Megan Vance – Patient Relations & Rights Advocate.*

"Yes?" I turned, my stomach tightening.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your visit," she said, pulling a scanned sheet of paper from her folder. "Our records department flagged an issue during afternoon document processing. We received an electronic submission of an Additional Authorized Caregiver form for your daughter, but our floor nurse noted earlier that you had refused authorization."

She handed me the printout.

"Mrs. Mercer, did you sign this authorization?"

I looked down at the document.

The form was identical to the one I had crossed out this morning. Charlotte Blake was listed as an authorized caregiver with full visitation and medical briefing rights.

At the bottom, on the line marked *Mother's Signature*, was my name.

It was a clumsy, tight imitation of my handwriting, the loop of the 'O' slightly too wide, the slant too steep.

Directly beside it, on the line labeled *Witness / Secondary Legal Guardian*, Gabriel’s familiar signature was penned in dark blue ink.

"No," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper that felt like ice. "I refused it this morning."

"Then we need to stop the request and document what happened," the advocate said, her pen poised over an incident log. "Submitting forged medical guardianship documents to an intensive care unit is a serious legal violation."

"My husband witnessed a signature I never wrote?" I asked.

"Yes," the advocate confirmed gently. "The document was emailed to our records desk from Ms. Charlotte Blake’s personal account two hours ago. Mr. Mercer's electronic countersignature was attached."

A vibration buzzed against my thigh.

I pulled out my phone.

A new text message from Gabriel flashed across the screen:

*Charlotte is coming to visit Ivy tomorrow. Try not to embarrass me again.*

I stared at the screen for three seconds, then turned the display toward the patient advocate.

"Then tomorrow," I said, "she won't be the only one facing questions."