My nails dug into the flesh of Benedict's palm. "Benedict, where are the doctors? There isn't a single doctor left? You promised me nothing would happen to our baby!"

All he did was squeeze my hand back, guilt written across his face. "The doctors are on their way. Just hold on a little longer, Phoebe. If it hurts, bite down on me."

On their way? Or were they too afraid to let me deliver before Vivian Chambers?

I swallowed the acid burning up my throat.

From the next room came Vivian's agonized screams. Naomi's head snapped toward the sound, and she barked at Benedict, "Relax, I'm here. She won't die. Now go check on Vivian! She's the one giving you a son. She's the one who matters."

Benedict hesitated, torn.

In the end, under my desperate gaze, he peeled my fingers off his hand, one by one. "Phoebe, I need to go check on Vivian."

I shook my head over and over, begging. "No. You can't leave me. I need a doctor. I need you."

He turned away, his expression pained. "I'm sorry, Phoebe. I promised Vivian I'd be there when her child was born."

I remembered the early days of my pregnancy, when Benedict had pressed his lips to my belly and whispered, "Phoebe, I promise. I'll be right beside you the whole time. I'll watch our baby come into this world with my own eyes."

Now he had pulled every doctor from every department and sent them to Vivian's room, leaving me to labor alone.

Eight hours passed.

I was so starved and depleted that my body gave out. I delivered a stillborn. When the doctors and nurses finally rushed in, their faces crumpled with pity. "We're so sorry. The baby suffocated. If Mr. Young had let us come even one minute sooner, we could have saved her."

From the room next door came the loud, healthy wail of a newborn. Naomi was overjoyed.

Benedict's voice drifted through the wall, warm and laughing as he cooed, "There you go. Say 'Daddy'!"

Vivian's voice drifted through the wall, coy and teasing. "He was just born. How could he possibly be talking?"

Benedict's tone was dripping with adoration. "He's our son. Of course he's smart. He'll pick it up in no time, won't you, Lawrence?"

I clutched my stillborn daughter, her body still warm, and collapsed forward, howling into the sheets. Benedict had promised me—if it was a boy, Lawrence. If it was a girl, Layla.

Now I couldn't even keep my child, and the name had been given to someone else.

A long time passed.