Chapter Three (Celia)

The ER lights were blinding.

I lay on the gurney, the sheet beneath me soaked through. A nurse jogged beside me, shouting toward the front desk: "Get blood ready! O negative, now!"

Matteo, still carrying Ivy, practically bulldozed through the crowd to the doctor on duty.

"She's pregnant, she says her stomach hurts! Look at her first!"

The doctor on duty was Dr. Gray. He'd worked at this hospital for fifteen years and had known me since my father was alive. He didn't even glance at Ivy. He shoved Matteo aside.

"Out of the way! She's having contractions, she can wait! Can't you see Ms. Moretti is hemorrhaging?"

Matteo followed his gaze.

The instant he saw me, he went completely still.

Then he strode over and gripped the rail of the gurney. His eyes were on fire, and his low voice was like a blade dragged across glass.

"Celia, which show is this one?"

"First you send her the photos and upset her so much she starts cramping. Then you count on me having no choice but to bring her to the nearest hospital, which happens to be yours. And then you lie down here and make every doctor in the building fuss over you so she doesn't get seen?"

He smiled through his teeth. "Every piece in place. You've really improved."

I'd lost so much blood my ears were roaring. I didn't even have the strength to argue.

Dr. Gray lost patience. "Mr. Falcone, she's not faking, she's pregnant—"

He didn't get to finish. Matteo bent his knees and dropped hard onto the marble floor.

The whole ER went silent.

"Is that enough?" He looked up at me. "Now will you let the doctor see her?"

I stared at him.

This man hadn't bent his back at eighteen, when his father beat him bloody. The year of the war between the families, he'd stood alone against the guns of three crews without blinking.

Now he was on his knees in my hospital. For another woman.

I didn't make a sound.

He waited two seconds. Then he slammed his forehead against the floor.

A dull thud. When he raised his head, his brow was split open.

"And now?"

I looked into his eyes, so full of hatred, and suddenly I understood.

He was gambling against me.

The same as every time in the last ten years. He was putting himself on the table, betting I couldn't bear to watch.

Only this time, he was staking himself so that someone else could win.

"Fine." When I still said nothing, he nodded, his voice shaking.

He pulled the folding knife he always carried from the inside pocket of his jacket, flicked it open, and drove it cleanly into his own left shoulder.

His shirt went red all at once.

"Celia, I fold. Take whatever you want. Take my life too."

I closed my eyes. My throat tasted of blood.

"Matteo, what if I'm not faking? What if I'm really dying tonight?"

He barely hesitated. "Then I'll die with you."

I knew he meant it.

In ten years, he had never once said something like that and not meant it.

And because it was true, it made me so tired.

I turned my head toward Dr. Gray and used the last of my strength.

"See her first."

Matteo froze for a second. Then he seemed to finally breathe out.

He pushed himself up off the floor, blood dripping from his shoulder, and looked at me. His voice was hoarse.

"Thank you."

In ten years, he had never once said thank you to me.

The words were so unfamiliar, they sounded like they'd come out of a stranger's mouth.

In the last second before the gurney rolled into the trauma room, I saw Ivy peek out from behind his shoulder and curve her lips at me.

When I woke up, it was the next afternoon.

Dr. Gray was sitting beside the bed with my chart in his hands. For a long time, he didn't say anything.

I already knew.

The place low in my belly was empty. I'd felt it from the first second I opened my eyes.

"I'm sorry, Celia." He took off his glasses. "We couldn't save the baby."

"And... the damage to your uterus this time is severe. It's going to be very difficult for you to get pregnant again."

I looked at the ceiling and nodded.

I didn't cry.

It was as if all my tears had already soaked into that rug.

I stayed in the hospital for a week.

Matteo stayed in the room next door the whole time. Through the wall, I could hear him coaxing Ivy to eat her soup, and Ivy complaining sweetly that it was too hot.

He never came to my side. Not once.

He probably thought I was plotting some new revenge.

On the fifth day, Dr. Gray came in with a report.

"Ms. Ivy Lane's prenatal paternity results are back. Mr. Falcone requested the test. He wanted to set up a trust for the baby in advance."

He paused. "The baby isn't his."

I looked out the window and didn't reach for it.

From today on, his business had nothing to do with me.

On the seventh day, I had my lawyer transfer all my shares in St. Jude's to the hospital's board.

It was the last thing my parents left me. I'd guarded it for ten years, fought off three hostile takeovers, and never once thought of letting it go.

Now, all I wanted was to walk away clean.

I handed Dr. Gray the divorce papers, my surgical record, and the paternity report.

"When he comes asking, give him these."

"And if he never asks?"

I smiled. "Then you won't need to."

O'Hare.

I stood at the gate, my palms slick with sweat.

Since the crash, I had never once set foot on a plane. The alarms in the cabin, on the day we lost our first baby, still woke me in the middle of the night.

I was afraid of heights. Of turbulence. Of the heavy thud of a cabin door sealing shut.

Matteo knew that better than anyone.

That was exactly why he'd never imagine I'd leave this way.

The final boarding call came over the speakers.

I gripped my boarding pass and walked on.

As the plane hurtled down the runway, I clutched the armrests, shut my eyes, and told myself over and over:

Celia, you walked out of that house.

It's just a plane.

At that same moment, back at St. Jude's.

Matteo had just gotten Ivy to sleep when Dr. Gray stopped him in the hallway.

"Mr. Falcone, there are some documents you need to sign for."

Three documents, placed side by side in his hands.

The one on top was Ivy's paternity report. He glanced at the conclusion, gave a cold laugh, and tossed it into the trash can beside him.

Celia's tricks were getting cheaper.

The second was a set of divorce papers.

His hand stopped.

He turned to the last page. On the signature line was handwriting he'd known for ten years.

He stared at the name, and something in his chest pulled tighter and tighter.

Ten years. No matter how bad things got between them, she had never once said that word.

Not once.

He tore open the last document.

It was a surgical record.

Patient: Celia Moretti.

Diagnosis: Pregnancy, sixteen weeks. Hemorrhagic shock.

Outcome: Fetus could not be saved.

The date was the night he'd knelt in the ER and begged her to let Ivy be seen first.