The hum of the hospital room was a steady, rhythmic drone. Beep. Hiss. Beep. It was the sound of life being sustained by machines, a stark contrast to the hollow silence in my chest.
I shifted in the narrow bed, wincing as the stitches from my C-section pulled tight against my skin. In my arms, wrapped in a standard-issue blue blanket, was Leo. He was six hours old. He smelled like milk and new beginnings.
I was waiting for James. He had stepped out “to get coffee” four hours ago, right after they wheeled me out of surgery.
The door opened.
My heart leaped, then plummeted.
It wasn’t James. It was Eleanor Sterling, my mother-in-law.
She swept into the sterile room like a cold front, dressed in a white Chanel suit that defied the grime of the city. Her hair was a helmet of platinum blonde, her makeup flawless. She didn’t look like a grandmother coming to meet her first grandchild. She looked like a CEO arriving for a hostile takeover.
There were no flowers in her hands. No teddy bear. Just a thick, manila folder.
“Eleanor?” I rasped, my throat dry. “Where is James? Is he okay?”
Eleanor stopped at the foot of the bed. She didn’t look at Leo. Her gaze was fixed on me, cool and assessing, like I was a piece of furniture she had decided to discard.
“James is fine, Maya,” she said, her voice smooth as polished glass. “He’s on his way to the airport. Monaco calls.”
“Monaco?” I blinked, confused. “But… the baby. We just had the baby.”
Eleanor placed the folder on the rolling tray table and pushed it toward me. It slid over the untouched hospital Jell-O.
