For a moment she stared at the silent phone. Then another wave of pain forced a cry from her lips. She stumbled into the hallway, gripping the railing to steady herself.
Her cry reached Mrs. Thompson, the elderly widow who lived downstairs. Within minutes, the older woman rushed upstairs, saw Emily’s pale face, and immediately called for an ambulance.
As paramedics carried Emily down the narrow staircase on a stretcher, Jason was nowhere near Seattle.
He was in a luxury hotel room in Aspen, stretched across white sheets with a glass of bourbon in his hand. Next to him lay Brittany, his young assistant, smiling playfully.
“Don’t you feel bad?” she teased. “Lying to your pregnant wife like that?”
Jason shrugged without concern.
“She’s weak. No ambition. No energy. You’re different. When you give me a son, I’ll leave everything for you.”
He said it casually, as though such promises meant nothing.
Meanwhile, Emily endured hours of exhausting labor. Just before sunrise, a baby girl was born—small and delicate, but breathing strong.
They named her Grace.
Shortly after the birth, Emily slipped into unconsciousness from exhaustion.
