Chapter 4
The door clicked softly shut behind Ethan as he stepped fully into Room 412. The room was bathed in the harsh, flat white light of midday filtering through heavy window blinds. Sarah sat propped up against a stack of pillows in the adjustable hospital bed, her brown hair pulled back into a loose, messy ponytail that framed her pale, exhausted face. She wore a standard-issue blue-and-white patterned hospital gown, her shoulders draped with a knitted gray blanket. In her arms, cradled securely against her chest, was a tiny bundle wrapped tightly in a pale yellow flannel blanket. The baby was quiet now, save for soft, fluttering sighs that escaped its tiny lips. Sarah did not look up immediately. She simply stared down at the infant, tracing the contour of its minuscule ear with the tip of her index finger, her expression entirely unreadable.
"You actually came," Sarah said softly, her voice carrying the dry, raspy fatigue of someone who had just endured an unimaginably grueling ordeal.
Ethan stood frozen near the foot of the bed, his hands clenched tightly at his sides, his tuxedo feeling like an absurd, suffocating costume in this room of raw, biological reality.
"How could you do this?" Ethan whispered, the words tearing out of his throat, laden with a mixture of profound betrayal and terrifying confusion. "Six months. You hid this for six months. We were supposed to get married today, Sarah. Clara is standing at an altar right now, waiting for a groom who just drove away."
Sarah finally raised her head, her deep brown eyes locking onto his with a piercing, unwavering intensity that made Ethan’s breath catch. There was no remorse in her gaze, only a heavy, crushing sorrow that had been buried under months of absolute isolation.
"I didn't ask you to leave your wedding, Ethan," Sarah said, her voice remaining dangerously steady. "I called to let you know your son had entered the world. What you chose to do with that information was entirely your decision."
Ethan took a jerky step forward, his hands trembling as he gripped the metal safety rail at the foot of the bed. "My decision? You dropped a bomb on my life over a phone call while I was standing at the altar! Whose child is that, Sarah? Look me in the eye and tell me the truth."
Sarah let out a bitter, humorless laugh that lacked any warmth. She shifted her arms slightly, parting the yellow flannel blanket just enough to reveal a tiny, sleeping face.
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"Come closer and look for yourself," Sarah challenged, tilting the baby slightly toward him. "You’ve always been good at avoiding the truth, Ethan. Let’s see if you can deny your own blood when it’s staring you right in the face."
Ethan hesitated, his entire body rebelling against the movement. Every step closer to that bed felt like stepping off a cliff into an endless abyss. Yet, driven by a morbid, unstoppable compulsion, he forced his feet to move, walking slowly around the side of the bed until he was standing directly beside Sarah, looking down into the small, fragile world resting within her arms.
