Chapter 1 - The Coldest Birthday
The harsh fluorescent lights of St. Jude Memorial Hospital hummed above me, casting a sterile white glow over the check-in desk where I clutched my swollen stomach. My water had broken twenty minutes ago, warm and sudden, soaking through my maternity jeans while I stood alone in the hallway. Contractions were tearing through my lower back every four minutes, sharp waves of agonizing pressure that made my knees buckle. Yet, the physical pain was nothing compared to the hollow, chilling ache in my chest.
At thirty-eight weeks pregnant, I had expected my husband, Rowan, to be standing right beside me. Instead, he was two towns over, cutting into an expensive filet mignon at an upscale steakhouse to celebrate his mother Selina’s sixtieth birthday.
My hands shook as I brought my cell phone to my ear. It rang twice before Rowan answered, the background noise instantly flooding the line—clinking crystal glasses, lively chatter, and the smooth, jazzy strum of a live piano.
"Rowan," I gasped, leaning heavily against the wall as another contraction crested, squeezing my eyes shut. "I’m at the hospital. My water broke. The baby is coming right now."
There was a heavy pause on the other end, followed by a deeply annoyed sigh. "Phoebe? Are you serious right now? Tonight of all nights?"
"What do you mean, are you serious?" My voice cracked, a mixture of disbelief and absolute heartbreak leaking through. "I'm in labor! The contractions are four minutes apart!"
"Phoebe, Mom’s dinner has been planned for months," Rowan snapped back, his tone defensive and callous. "You know how much this milestone means to her. You’re always pulling stunts whenever my family tries to celebrate something."
Before I could even process his accusation, I heard Selina’s sharp, piercing voice pipe up clearly in the background, loud enough to bypass the phone’s speaker. "Tell her women have been giving birth without husbands forever! She's just looking for attention!"
Rowan let out a short, dismissive laugh that echoed straight into my soul. "You heard her, Phoebe. Handle it yourself. Stop being so dramatic."
Click.
The line went dead.
In that single, agonizing click, something inside me shattered—and then instantly hardened into unbreakable steel. For three years, I had bent over backward to accommodate Rowan’s overbearing, narcissistic mother. I had swallowed every insult, every passive-aggressive jab about my career, and every holiday ruined by their toxic enmeshment. And now, when my body was split in half bringing our child into the world, he chose a steak dinner and a birthday toast over his own wife and son.
I didn't cry. I didn't call him back to beg.
Instead, with trembling fingers, I opened my contacts and scrolled down to a number I hadn’t dialed in nearly two years. A number tied to a man the financial world feared, but whom I had kept at arm's length out of stubborn pride.
My father.
"Dad..." I whispered the instant the line picked up.
Gideon Sterling didn't say hello. He didn't waste a single second with pleasantries. The moment he heard the strain in my voice, his tone shifted from boardroom executive to fierce, protective patriarch. "Phoebe? Where are you?"
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"St. Jude Memorial," I choked out, a solitary tear finally slipping down my cheek. "My water broke. Rowan is... Rowan isn't coming."
"I'll be there in twenty minutes," Dad said, his voice hard as granite. "Hold on, sweetheart. Your father is on his way."
