Chapter 8 - WHEN ROMAN HAD TO CHOOSE AGAIN, HE NEVER LOOKED AT THE CLOCK
Lucia decided to arrive at thirty-six weeks and four days.
At 2:11 in the morning, Amelia woke with pain.
Real pain.
Not the tightening she had experienced before.
She sat up in the townhouse.
Then felt warm fluid.
“Oh.”
Roman was not there.
They were still living separately.
He had spent the evening with her, assembled half a crib incorrectly, argued with the instruction manual, and left at ten because Amelia wanted sleep.
She called him.
One ring.
“Amelia?”
“My water broke.”
Silence.
Then Roman:
“I’m coming.”
“Hospital.”
“Right.”
Good.
No attempt to collect her first.
Amelia called Margaret.
They drove.
Roman reached Harbor Mercy nine minutes after Amelia.
Miles apparently violated several traffic laws.
Amelia did not ask.
This time Roman stopped at reception.
Again.
“Can I come in?”
The nurse checked.
Amelia, breathing through a contraction, laughed.
“Tell him yes before he starts pacing through the floor.”
Roman entered.
He looked terrified.
“You’re smiling.”
“You look worse than I do.”
“Impossible.”
Six hours later, the baby’s heart rate changed.
The obstetrician became serious.
The partial placental abruption appeared to be worsening.
Amelia might need emergency cesarean delivery.
Roman went pale.
“Do it.”
The doctor looked at Amelia.
Not him.
Good.
Amelia asked questions.
Risks.
Benefits.
Timing.
Then nodded.
“Do it.”
Preparation moved fast.
Roman put on surgical covering.
Amelia looked at him.
“Don’t faint.”
“I don’t faint.”
“You almost killed three men because you had to get a flu shot.”
“I was twelve.”
“You were thirty-seven.”
Roman looked offended.
She laughed until another contraction interrupted.
Then suddenly there were bright lights.
Masks.
Cold operating room.
Roman beside her head.
His hand around hers.
“Amelia.”
“What?”
“I love you.”
“I know.”
He almost laughed.
The same answer she had given after the kidnapping.
Different now.
Then:
“I love you too.”
Roman stopped breathing.
“Now is not the time to die.”
“Right.”
Minutes stretched.
Pressure.
Voices.
Then a baby cried.
Small.
Angry.
Perfect.
Amelia burst into tears.
Roman made a sound she had never heard from him.
Their daughter.
Lucia Vale.
Five pounds, eight ounces.
Breathing.
Crying.
Alive.
Roman looked when doctors allowed.
Then returned immediately to Amelia.
That surprised her.
“You can go with her.”
Roman stared.
“Do you want me to?”
“Yes.”
Only then did he leave her side.
Choice.
Clear.
Later, Lucia needed several hours of observation because she was early.
No major complications.
Amelia recovered.
Roman stood beside the bassinet staring like the child had invented oxygen.
Miles entered the room.
“Congratulations.”
Roman nodded without looking away.
“Thank you.”
Then Miles handed him a phone.
“Board call.”
Roman stared.
“You’re joking.”
“No.”
An emergency issue had developed at one of the terminals.
Not violence.
A labor negotiation and equipment shutdown.
Before, Roman would have left.
Or taken the call in the room.
Or made Amelia’s postpartum recovery compete with a shipping crisis.
He handed the phone back.
“Angela can handle it.”
“Angela wants confirmation.”
“Confirm that I trust her.”
Miles smiled.
“I’m going to enjoy this.”
“Leave.”
Amelia watched from the bed.
“You didn’t even ask what happened.”
Roman looked at her.
“Is the building on fire?”
“No.”
“Anyone dying?”
“No.”
“Then tomorrow.”
She smiled.
Roman sat beside her.
Lucia slept between them.
At noon, Roman’s mother arrived.
Then Margaret.
Then flowers.
Too many flowers.
Roman banned half from the room because Amelia hated lilies.
He remembered.
Vanessa sent nothing.
Later, a simple card arrived through mail.
Welcome, Lucia. May nobody ever make you carry a promise that belongs to someone else. — Vanessa
Amelia cried.
Roman read it.
Then quietly placed it with the other cards.
No call.
No obligation.
Damien’s plea became final two weeks after Lucia’s birth.
Roman did not attend sentencing.
Amelia asked why.
“I already know what he did.”
“Don’t you want to watch consequences?”
“No.”
He looked at Lucia sleeping against Amelia’s chest.
“I have something better to watch.”
Cheesy.
True.
Six weeks postpartum, Amelia returned to the estate for an afternoon.
The nursery Roman had prepared years earlier? Better: during pregnancy, a room had been planned but never finished because Amelia left. Roman had not completed it after she disappeared.
The walls remained half-painted.
Boxes unopened.
Amelia stared.
“You stopped?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You didn’t live here.”
“So?”
“It wasn’t my nursery to finish.”
That hit.
Amelia walked in.
Picked up a paint sample.
Soft green.
“We finish it together.”
Roman stared.
“Are you coming home?”
“Eventually.”
His face brightened.
“Eventually?”
“Do not ruin it.”
He laughed.
Three months later, Amelia and Lucia moved back.
Not because danger ended.
Not because Roman promised perfection.
Because Amelia chose.
The estate changed first.
Private security moved outside family living areas.
Internal cameras removed except at exterior access points.
Amelia had her own accounts.
Her own attorney.
Her own car.
Her own schedule.
Roman’s security team could recommend.
Not command.
Couples therapy continued every Tuesday at four.
Roman hated Tuesdays.
Went anyway.
One afternoon, the therapist asked:
“What was the moment the marriage truly changed?”
Roman answered:
“When I chose Vanessa first.”
Amelia shook her head.
“No.”
Roman looked at her.
“When?”
“When I disappeared.”
He went still.
“Why?”
“Because that was the first time you learned loving me did not give you access to me.”
Roman’s eyes filled.
She continued.
“And it was the first time I learned leaving you did not mean I stopped loving you.”
Both.
Always both.
Roman reached for her hand.
Stopped halfway.
Amelia smiled and completed the distance herself.
That was how they rebuilt.
May you like
Not with grand gestures.
One permission at a time.
