The Cold Tile
The kitchen was blindingly white, sterile, and silent except for the frantic, wet sound of Emma’s breathing.
The reflection on the polished marble tile cast two versions of her: the woman who had spent eight years building what she believed was an unshakable family, and the shattered figure curled sideways, clutching her rounded belly as sharp, tearing cramps ripped through her lower abdomen. Beside her limp hand lay her black smartphone, the screen cracked, and a thin gold wedding band spinning slowly until it came to a quiet rest against the baseboard.
The front door slammed open, the lock splintering against the frame.
"Em! Em, I’m here!"
David dropped to his knees, the impact echoing off the stainless steel appliances. His coat was damp with evening rain, his hands rough and shaking as he cupped her face and slid an arm beneath her shoulders. He was her older brother, the one person who had warned her against Julian's polished promises six years ago.
"Catch him..." Emma whispered, her fingers digging into the sleeve of David’s jacket, her nails tearing the wool. "David... the baby. The baby's moving wrong..."
"I’ve got you. Paramedics are two minutes out. Look at me, Em." David’s voice was firm, but his green eyes darted to the pool of crimson darkening the hem of her beige loungewear. "What happened? Did Julian—"
"Dinner..." Emma choked out, blood trickling from the small cut on her left temple down into her eyelashes. "He’s at the Capital Club with Madison Vale. He took the safety deposit keys... the deed... everything."
David’s jaw clenched with lethal restraint. "Forget the keys. Just breathe. Deep breaths."
The wail of sirens cut through the quiet suburban street outside.
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"Not dying on this floor," Emma muttered, her gaze locking onto her brother with fierce, unyielding maternal will. "I’m not leaving my baby on this floor."
"You’re not," David promised. "I won't let you."
