Chapter 3
The tires of Ethan’s sedan screeched as he violently pulled into the emergency drop-off zone of St. Jude’s General Hospital, throwing the car into park and leaving the engine running. He threw the door open, ignoring the sharp honk of an ambulance trying to maneuver around his vehicle, and bolted through automatic sliding doors into the chaotic, fluorescent-lit lobby. The smell of antiseptic, bleach, and old coffee hit him instantly, a stark contrast to the lingering scent of lilies and cologne he had worn to his own wedding. He ignored the security guard shouting at him for abandoning his car and rushed straight to the central nursing station, his tuxedo jacket flapping wildly around his knees.
"Sarah Miller," Ethan demanded, slamming his hands onto the high counter. "Where is Sarah Miller? I need her room number right now."
The receptionist, a tired-looking woman with wire-rimmed glasses, blinked slowly behind her computer monitor, sizing up the frantic man in a high-end tuxedo with a crushed white rose on his chest.
"Sir, visiting hours for maternity are strictly regulated, and I need to see identification before—"
"Listen to me!" Ethan shouted, leaning across the counter, his voice cracking with a raw, desperate edge that made nearby nurses freeze in their tracks. "She had a baby an hour ago. I am the father. I don't care about your rules. Give me the room number or I will start opening every single door on this floor myself."
The receptionist swallowed hard, intimidated by the wild, manic energy radiating from his eyes, and quickly tapped her keyboard. "Room 412. Fourth floor, east wing. Take the elevators to your left."
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Ethan didn't wait for her to finish. He spun around, sprinting past the banks of elevators toward the stairwell, knowing instinctively that waiting for an elevator would take too much time. He threw the heavy metal stair door open and took the steps three at a time, his polished leather dress shoes slipping slightly against the concrete. By the time he burst through the fourth-floor stairwell door, his chest was heaving, and sweat was plastered across his forehead, matting his dark hair. The east wing was eerily quiet, lined with pastel pink and blue nursery notices taped to corkboards. He checked the numbers on the doors in rapid succession. 408, 410, 412.
Ethan stopped dead in his tracks. The door to Room 412 was pushed open a few inches, revealing a narrow sliver of the sterile white room inside. He could hear the soft, rhythmic hum of a bassinet monitor and the faint, unmistakable sound of a tiny, delicate infant crying. His hand trembled as he raised it, his fingertips brushing against the cool wooden surface of the door. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to turn around, to go back to his car, to pretend this day had never happened, and to walk back down the aisle toward Clara. But the gravity of the unknown pulled him inexorably forward. With a slow, agonizing push, he swung the door wide open and stepped across the threshold, entering a reality that would forever tear his life apart.
