Chapter 95: Storm Warning
The morning sun painted the villa in stripes of gold and shadow. Stephanie stretched, a contented sigh escaping her as the silk sheet slid down her shoulder. Veronica was already awake, propped on an elbow, watching her with those sharp green eyes that missed nothing.
“You were snoring,” Veronica said, a slow smile playing on her lips.
“I do not snore,” Stephanie mumbled, rolling onto her back. The weight of her belly was a familiar, heavy presence. “You are a terrible liar.”
“Like a little buzzsaw. Very sexy.”
Stephanie laughed, swatting at her arm. The movement was casual, easy. Then she froze. A peculiar, deep cramp tightened across her lower back, radiating around to the front. It wasn’t pain, not yet. It was a profound, internal squeeze that stole her breath.
Veronica saw the change instantly. The levity vanished from her face. “Steph?”
“It is nothing,” Stephanie breathed, forcing a smile. “A Braxton Hicks. The book said they are practice. They feel… odd.”
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, intending to stand, to walk it off. As she planted her feet on the cool floor, a warm, sudden gush flooded between her thighs, soaking through her thin nightgown and pattering onto the polished wood.
Time stopped.
Stephanie looked down at the clear, amniotic fluid pooling at her feet. Her mind went blank, white with static. This wasn’t in the plan. They had weeks left. The Parisian doctor, the one her mother had insisted on, had been adamant.
Veronica was moving before Stephanie could process another thought. In one fluid motion, she was off the bed and beside her, her hands firm on Stephanie’s shoulders.
“Okay,” Veronica said, her voice a deep, steady anchor. “Okay, chérie. That’s the show. We’re on.”
“But it is too soon,” Stephanie whispered, her French accent thickening with panic. She clutched at Veronica’s robe. “Thirty-four weeks. It is too soon, Veronica.”
“Babies have their own schedules. Ours is just eager.” Veronica’s tone brooked no argument. She guided Stephanie back to sit on the edge of the bed. “Breathe. Just like we practiced. In through the nose, out through the mouth.”
Stephanie tried to mimic her, but another squeeze, stronger this time, clamped down. A small whimper escaped her. “It hurts.”
“I know.” Veronica was already in motion, grabbing her phone from the nightstand. She dialed with a calm that seemed superhuman. “Yes. This is Veronica Barlowe in the Presidential Villa. My wife’s water has broken. We need medical assistance immediately. Yes. Contractions are approximately… two minutes apart.” She looked at Stephanie, who nodded, eyes wide. “And alert the hospital in George Town. We’ll need the neonatal unit on standby.”
She hung up and knelt in front of Stephanie, ignoring the fluid on the floor. She took Stephanie’s face in her hands. “Listen to me. You are the strongest person I know. You fled a country. You stared down my mother without flinching. You can do this. We are doing this.”
A sob hitched in Stephanie’s chest. “I am scared.”
“So am I,” Veronica admitted, her thumb stroking Stephanie’s cheek. “But we’re scared together. Now, let’s get you into something dry.”
With efficient tenderness, she helped Stephanie out of the soaked nightgown and into a loose, clean sundress. Another contraction rolled through, and Stephanie bent over, gripping the bedpost, her knuckles white. Veronica’s hand pressed firmly into the small of her back, applying counter-pressure.
“Good, you’re doing good,” Veronica murmured, her voice a low chant against Stephanie’s ear. “Ride the wave. It’s just a wave.”
There was a brisk knock at the villa door. Veronica shouted, “It’s open!” and two resort medics rushed in with a wheelchair. Their professional calm was a stark contrast to the storm inside Stephanie.
“Mrs. Barlowe-James? Let’s get you comfortable.”
As they helped her into the chair, Stephanie gripped Veronica’s hand like a lifeline. “You will come? In the ambulance?”
Veronica didn’t let go. “Try and stop me. I just need one second.” She snatched up her wallet, both their passports, and the dog-eared copy of What to Expect that had been living on her nightstand. She shrugged into a pair of sandals and was back at Stephanie’s side before the medics had finished strapping her in.
The ride through the resort was a blur of vibrant flowers and startled tourists. The sun felt too bright, the reggae music from a nearby bar too cheerful. The ambulance was waiting, its rear doors open like a waiting mouth.
Veronica climbed in right after the stretcher, ignoring the attendant’s suggestion that she follow in a car. She settled on the bench beside Stephanie, never releasing her hand.
The siren wailed to life, a sharp, screaming counterpoint to the island serenity. Inside, the world narrowed to the metallic smell of the ambulance, the beep of a monitor, and the intense focus in Veronica’s eyes.
“Call my mother,” Stephanie gasped as another contraction peaked. “And yours. They will kill us if they hear it from someone else.”
Veronica gave a tight, grim nod. She pulled out her phone, her other hand still locked with Stephanie’s. She hit a speed-dial and put it on speaker, holding it between them.
The ring was agonizing. Then a sharp, elegant voice answered. “Veronica? To what do I owe the pleasure? Is Stephanie alright?”
“Margot,” Veronica said, her voice impressively level. “Stephanie is right here. Her water broke. We’re in an ambulance headed to the hospital in George Town.”
A beat of stunned silence. Then, a flurry of French, too fast and distressed for Veronica to fully catch. Stephanie rallied, her voice strained but clear. “Maman, calme-toi. It is fine. The baby is just… impatient. Like her maman.”
Margot’s voice switched to English, tight with controlled fear. “Thirty-four weeks? Mon dieu. The lungs. Are the steroids—?”
“They’ll handle it at the hospital,” Veronica cut in, authority saturating each word. “We’ll call you the moment we know more. Please, tell Charles.”
She hung up before Margot could fully spiral and immediately dialed again.
This time, the voice was a deep, rich baritone. “Daughter. You’re calling early. Everything good?”
“Jace. Put Reyna on. Both of you. Now.”
There was a muffled sound, then a new voice, like gravel wrapped in velvet. “Veronica? What’s wrong?”
“Mum. Stephanie’s in labor. We’re on the way to the hospital.”
No gasp. No flurry. Just a weighted pause. “The timing’s off.”
“I’m aware.”
“Is she steady?”
Veronica looked at Stephanie, who was panting through another contraction, her face pale but determined. “She’s a rock.”
“Good. And you? You’re in the ambulance with her?”
“Yes.”
“Alright. Listen to me. You be her fortress. You hear? Don’t let the doctors bully you. Ask every question. You fight for them. Both of them.”
“I will.”
“We’re on the next flight. Tell Stephanie we’re coming. And, Veronica?”
“Yes, Mum?”
“Breathe. You’re no good to her if you pass out.”
The call ended. The ambulance swayed around a corner. Stephanie’s contraction subsided, and she sank back into the stretcher, sweat beading on her temples.
“Fortress, huh?” Stephanie whispered, a ghost of a smile touching her lips.
“Damn right,” Veronica said, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. Her lips lingered there. “You and me. We’ve got this.”
The ambulance sped on, leaving the pristine beach and the memory of a honeymoon behind, racing toward the frantic, brilliant unknown.