She looked up at the man who had just kicked her, then down at the crimson staining her jeans. Derek’s smug expression faltered, finally cracking into something that resembled fear.
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Now, let’s get back to Amara.
The pain hit in waves—starting as a dull ache and quickly escalating into something that blurred her vision. She gripped the armrest with one hand, the other still gently cradling her belly, feeling for movement. Any movement. The baby had been kicking all morning, restless, like Amara herself, but now… there was nothing.
“Ma’am.”
A flight attendant appeared at her side. She was a young Asian woman, her name tag reading “Jessica Chen,” her eyes widening as she saw the blood. “Oh my god, we need to—”
“I’m fine,” Amara said through gritted teeth. But even as the words left her mouth, another contraction seized her abdomen.
“Not fine, nowhere near fine.” Derek Crawford had already settled into seat 3B—the window seat he had demanded, the one Amara had paid extra for, the one she had earned after eight months undercover with white supremacists. He was focused on his phone now, deliberately ignoring the chaos he had caused, but his hands trembled slightly as he scrolled.
