The ER doctor is young. Calm. Probably sees pregnant women in crisis regularly.
She does an ultrasound. Checks vitals. Asks questions about the "car accident" we definitely weren't in.
I watch the monitor. The grainy image of our baby. That tiny flutter of a heartbeat. Impossibly fast. Impossibly fragile. A life that almost ended today because someone decided we were expendable.
My hand finds my stomach. Protective. Futile. Like I could shield this baby from bullets and poison and the entire Ashford empire with just my palm pressed against skin.
"Everything looks good," she finally says. "Baby's heartbeat is strong. No signs of placental abruption or distress. You got lucky."
Lucky. Right.
Lucky that the bullet missed my head by inches. Lucky that Damien's body blocked the second shot. Lucky that we're alive when James and Chen and God knows how many others are dead.
