The flight back to New York takes seven hours.
Seven hours of Damien making plans, calling contacts, arranging security. Seven hours of me lying still, trying not to stress, failing spectacularly. Every bump of turbulence sends my heart racing. Every contraction—and there have been three so far, mild but present—makes me wonder if we'll even make it back before everything falls apart.
"We need backup," he's saying into his phone. "Everyone you trust. Everyone who owes you favors. I don't care what it costs. We're walking into a trap and I need to make sure we walk out."
He hangs up. Looks at me. "How are you feeling?"
"Terrified. But the baby's still moving. Still fighting." I touch my stomach, feeling the small flutter that's become my only reassurance. "She's stubborn. Like her parents."
"Good. She'll need that." He sits beside me. Takes my hand. His grip is tight, almost desperate. "I'm sorry. For all of this. For my father. For—"
