Pregnant Wife in Freezer Hell

The cold penetrated my skin like tiny needles, each breath a painful reminder that I was trapped. My fingers had gone numb first, then my toes. Now, a different kind of pain began to radiate through my lower back—sharp, insistent.

"No," I whispered, recognizing the sensation. "Not now. Please, not now."

I leaned against the wall, sliding down until I sat on the frozen floor. The baby kicked violently inside me, as if sensing the danger we were in.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, tears freezing on my cheeks. "I'm so sorry, little one."

The contraction hit without warning—a wave of pain that made me gasp and double over. Eight months pregnant. Too early. Much too early.

"Help!" I screamed, my voice echoing off the metal walls. "Please, somebody help!"

Silence answered me. The freezer hummed steadily, the temperature dropping further. I fumbled with my purse, fingers clumsy and unresponsive.

"There has to be something," I muttered, dumping the contents onto the floor. Lipstick, wallet, keys—useless in my current situation.

Another contraction seized me, stronger than the first. I bit my lip to keep from screaming, tasting blood.

"Think," I urged myself. "Think, Sabrina."

My father's face flashed in my mind—his stern expression, his protective nature. Six months ago, when he'd staged his death to test Everett's loyalty, he'd pressed something into my hand.

"An emergency phone," he'd whispered. "For when you need me most."

I'd been angry then, defiant. "I won't need it. Everett loves me."

Father had just looked at me with that knowing sadness. "Keep it anyway. Hidden pocket of your purse."

I'd forgotten about it until now.

With trembling fingers, I reached into the lining of my purse, feeling for the secret compartment Father had mentioned. There—a small bulge. I tore at the fabric, not caring about the expensive designer bag, and pulled out a sleek black phone.

The screen lit up when I touched it. One number programmed.

"Please work," I prayed, pressing the call button.

It rang once, twice, three times.

"Sabrina?" Father's voice, sharp with concern.

"Daddy," I sobbed, the word escaping before I could stop it. "Help me."

"What's happened?" His voice dropped to that dangerous calm I remembered from childhood—the tone that preceded his most ruthless business decisions.

"Everett," I managed between gasps as another contraction began. "He locked me in the freezer room. I'm pregnant. The baby—"

"Where are you?" The phone rustled as he moved.

"Anderson Tower basement," I whispered, my teeth chattering uncontrollably now. "Freezer room. I'm so cold, Daddy. The baby's coming."

I heard him barking orders to someone nearby—names I didn't recognize, commands issued with military precision.

"Stay on the phone," he ordered. "I'm coming for you."

"Too late," I murmured, feeling darkness creeping into the edges of my vision. "It's too late."

"Fight, Sabrina!" Father's voice cut through the fog. "That child is an Anderson. Fight!"

I clutched the phone tighter as another contraction ripped through me. "I'm trying," I whimpered.

Time blurred. The cold became a living thing, wrapping around me, seeping into my bones. I curled around my belly, trying to preserve what little warmth remained.

"I'm sorry," I whispered to my unborn child. "I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you."

The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering to the floor. Father's voice continued, distant and urgent, but I couldn't focus on his words anymore.

The darkness was coming faster now.

Then—noise. Shouting. The metallic screech of the door being forced open.

Light flooded the freezer, blinding after the dim interior. I squinted, making out figures in the doorway.

"In here," someone shouted. "She's in labor!"

Warm hands lifted me. I cried out as they moved me, the pain of the contraction overwhelming.

"Miss Anderson," a voice said close to my ear. "Can you hear me? We're taking you to the hospital."

I tried to respond, but my lips wouldn't form words anymore.

"Sir," another voice called. "She's unconscious."

"Get her in the car," commanded a familiar voice—my father's. "Now!"

As they carried me out, I caught a glimpse of him standing in the corridor, his face a mask of controlled fury. Six months of hiding, of pretending to be dead, and now he stood revealed—for me.

"Daddy," I whispered.

His eyes found mine, and in them I saw the promise of retribution.

"Hold on, Sabrina," he said softly. "Just hold on."

But as the darkness claimed me completely, I wondered if either of us would survive what was coming next.