“They’re hiding it,” Emily muttered. “We need to get out before they erase everything.”
Footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Ignoring the pain, I grabbed her hand. I tore out the IV, wrapped my baby tightly, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and stood.
As the door handle turned, we slipped out through the side exit.
We left the hospital without looking back—and that was when everything truly began.
Outside, the night air cut against my skin, but adrenaline kept me moving. Emily flagged down a taxi while I clutched my newborn, my hospital bracelet still dangling from my wrist. The driver hesitated.
“She just gave birth,” Emily said firmly. “Please.”
He nodded and drove.
When we reached home, my husband, Mark Bennett, froze in shock. “Laura? You weren’t supposed to be discharged yet.”
Emily handed him the paper. He read it twice. His jaw tightened. “This isn’t an accident,” he said quietly. “This is a cover-up.”
By morning, the pain was unbearable. Mark rushed me to another hospital. After tests and scans, a doctor came in, her expression serious.
