Chapter 86: The Midnight Feeding Revelation
“Okay.”
The word hung in the quiet room, a soft exhalation that felt like the first real truth she’d spoken all day. She finished her wine, the sweet peach flavor a stark contrast to the metallic adrenaline still fading from her tongue. Kash watched her, his dark eyes reflecting the low light, waiting.
“Twenty million,” she finally whispered, shaking her head. A disbelieving laugh escaped her. “You opened an account. You just… moved money.”
“I delegated a task to my financial manager. His name is Paul. He’s very efficient.” Kash’s lips quirked. “The hardest part was choosing the card design. I went with platinum. Less flashy.”
His dry tone broke the solemnity. She swatted his arm, the gesture feeble but genuine. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m practical.” He caught her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. Her bright, sharp nails looked surreal against his skin, a vibrant artifact from a life that suddenly felt galaxies away. “That money isn’t a leash. It’s a runway. So you can fly the way you want to, not the way you have to.”
The monitor crackled softly. Sidnee made a little snuffling sound, then settled. Amber stared at their joined hands, the enormity of it all settling into her bones not as a shock, but as a profound, humming warmth.
“I built those suites from a folding table in my mom’s sunroom,” she said, her voice thick. “Every single drill bit, every polish bottle, every consultation where someone looked right past me until they saw my work. It’s my fingerprints on every surface.”
“I know.” He brought her knuckles to his lips. “And now your fingerprints can be here. On them. On the blueprints for the manor. On whatever you choose next. The business is your legacy. It doesn’t have to be your jail cell.”
The metaphor landed, precise and brutal. She’d been the warden and the inmate. The freedom he offered was terrifying. Who was she, if not the woman who put out fires before her coffee cooled?
As if sensing her spiral, Sincere let out a thin, reedy cry from the nursery. It was followed a second later by Sidnee’s answering whimper. The window of peace snapped shut.
Amber moved to rise, but Kash squeezed her hand. “My turn. You finish your wine.” He stood, his tall frame unfolding from the sofa with a weary grace that mirrored her own fatigue. “Sit. Breathe. Remember what that’s like.”
She listened as he padded down the hall, his murmurs too low to decipher but his tone a steady, calming rhythm. She picked up the heavy envelope again, tracing the embossed bank logo with her thumb. The paper felt like a pivot, a tangible hinge between one life and another.
She heard the shuffling, the soft creak of crib mattresses, his deeper voice threading between the two rising cries. It took longer tonight. A fresh pang of anxiety, that old familiar pull, started in her chest. He needs help. You should go. What if he can’t—
Then, quiet. Not total silence, but the low, steady murmur of his voice reading. She recognized the rhythm—Goodnight Moon, the book her mother had sent. He was in the big rocking chair, probably with a baby on each arm.
Amber finished her wine. She stood, her body stiff, and walked to the nursery doorway.
The scene inside stopped her breath. Kash was indeed in the oversized glider, a baby cradled in each arm, the book propped open on his knee. The only light came from the moon-shaped nightlight, casting his profile in soft silver. Sincere was already asleep again, his mouth a perfect little rosebud. Sidnee’s eyes were heavy, her tiny hand splayed on Kash’s chest, her fingers kneading the soft cotton of his t-shirt as he read.
“‘Goodnight light and the red balloon…’” he read, his voice a gravelly, tender rumble.
He didn’t see her. He was utterly absorbed, his entire world narrowed to the weight in his arms and the words on the page. Amber leaned against the doorjamb, a fierce, protective love swelling in her throat. This was the man who negotiated eight-figure deals before breakfast. Here he was, whispering about a quiet old lady and a bowl full of mush.
He finished the book, closed it gently, and just sat, rocking. He looked up then, sensing her. In the dim light, his smile was tired but utterly unguarded.
“They just wanted the boring part,” he whispered. “The goodnight noises.”
“The boring part is the best part,” she whispered back.
He nodded, looking down at Sidnee, whose eyelids had finally fluttered shut. “I never knew I could feel this full,” he said, the words so quiet they were almost lost in the creak of the rocker. “And this terrified. All the time.”
Amber’s heart clenched. She crossed the room and knelt beside the chair, resting her head against his knee. “Welcome to the club. The dues are paid in panic and pureed carrots.”
He let out a soft huff of laughter. They stayed like that until his arms must have gone numb, then carefully transferred each baby to their crib. They crept out, leaving the door ajar.
In the darkened hallway, Kash stopped her. He turned her to face him, his hands settling on her hips. The house was quiet, the only sounds their breathing and the distant hum of the city.
“You with me?” he asked, his thumbs tracing the arch of her hip bones.
“I’m right here.”
He searched her face, then leaned down, kissing her. It was slow and deep, a reclamation. It tasted of the evening’s wine and exhaustion and a shared, hard-won peace. Her hands came up to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, her sharp nails scraping gently against his scalp.
When they parted, he didn’t let go. He guided her backwards, not toward their bedroom, but to the large arched window at the end of the hall that overlooked their shadowed, moonlit yard. The manicured hedges were pools of ink, the magnolia blossoms glowed like pale fists in the dark.
He pressed her gently against the cool window sill, the wood digging faintly into her lower back. His mouth found her neck, his hands sliding under the hem of her soft t-shirt. There was a quiet urgency to it, a wordless communication that bypassed thought.
“Here?” she breathed, her own hands pulling at the waistband of his sweatpants.
“Yes.” The word was a vibration against her skin. He hooked his hands under her thighs, lifting her onto the wide sill. The night air whispered against her bare legs. He fumbled with his own clothes, then with the thin barrier of her shorts, his movements efficient, his focus absolute.
He entered her in one deep, smooth thrust, and Amber gasped, biting her lip to stifle the sound. It had been weeks. Her body was different, softer, more sensitive. He stilled, letting her adjust, his forehead pressed to hers. His breaths were ragged.
“Okay?” he murmured.
“Don’t you dare stop,” she whispered back, digging her heels into the small of his back.
He began to move, a slow, rolling rhythm that was less about passion and more about profound reconnection. It was grounding, a desperate affirmation of life after the endless cycle of servitude to their newborns. She clutched his shoulders, her face buried in the curve of his neck, each quiet, deep stroke pulling her further from the chaos and into this singular, anchored moment.
Her climax built quietly, a warm, unwinding coil in her belly that released with a series of soft, trembling sighs she muffled against his skin. He followed moments after, his body tensing, a low groan escaping as he buried his face in the hollow of her shoulder.
For a long minute, they stayed like that, slumped together in the dark, their breathing the loudest sound in the world. The cool glass against her back, the heat of him against her front, the faint, milky scent still clinging to them both.
He carefully lifted her down, helping her with her clothes before attending to his own. He kept an arm around her, pulling her close as they both looked out at the sleeping estate.
“This is our life now,” he whispered into her hair, his voice rough with spent emotion. “Chaotic. Exhausting. Perfect.”
From the nursery, Sidnee let out a single, half-hearted cry—a dream whimper—then fell silent. They waited, frozen. No second cry came.
Amber leaned into him, the envelope with the impossible number forgotten on the coffee table, the flooded salon a problem for another day. Here, in the dark, with his heart thudding against her ear and the scent of magnolias drifting through the window screen, she believed him.
“Yeah,” she breathed, her own voice a thread of sound. “It is.”
“It is.”
They stood for another minute, his chin resting on her head, watching a lone car’s headlights paint the distant street. The reality of their damp clothes and the hard sill began to seep in, replacing the warmth. Amber shivered.
“We should probably,” she started, nodding toward their bedroom.
“Probably,” he agreed, but didn’t move.
She turned in his arms, facing him. The moon cast enough light to see the tired lines around his eyes, the soft focus of his satiated expression. It felt like the right moment, suspended between the intense intimacy and the return to mundane reality.
“So, now that I’m officially in the clear,” she said, her voice low and practical, “we need to talk about not having a slip-up.” She ran a hand down his chest. “I should get on something. An IUD, maybe. The pill seems like a lot to remember with the human alarm clocks we’ve got.”
Kash’s eyebrows lifted slightly, the romantic haze clearing for logistical thinking. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Whatever you want. Whatever’s easiest on you.” He kissed her forehead. “We can call Dr. Evans in the morning.”
“Okay.” She leaned into him, relieved. It was one less thing to hold in her brain, one variable managed. “Just… no more surprises for a while. I think we’ve hit our quota.”
“I think the universe would agree,” he chuckled, the sound rumbling through her. He finally stepped back, taking her hand. “Come on. Let’s steal at least ninety minutes.”
They made their way to the bedroom, a slow, weary procession. Amber’s body felt pleasantly heavy, her muscles loose. She brushed her teeth at the vanity, catching Kash’s reflection in the mirror as he pulled back the duvet.
He paused, looking at the empty space where she usually slept. “You know,” he said, his tone deliberately light, “with that twenty million, we could hire a night nurse. Just for a few weeks. So we could actually sleep through a cycle.”
Amber spat her toothpaste, wiping her mouth. She met his eyes in the glass. The offer was a life raft. Her pride, that fierce, independent part that had built everything herself, wanted to refuse on principle. But her body, her aching, depleted body, screamed yes.
“Just for a few weeks?” she asked, her voice small.
“However long you need. It’s not a surrender, Amber. It’s a tactical retreat for reinforcements.” He climbed into bed. “You’re the general. Even generals sleep.”
She slid in beside him, the cool sheets a shock. She turned onto her side, facing him. “Interview them. You do it. I don’t want some perky stranger judging my messy bun.”
“Deal.” He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close so her back was against his chest. His body was a solid wall of heat. “I’ll find someone terrifyingly competent and utterly discreet.”
She smiled in the dark. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Just sleep.”
She closed her eyes, listening to the steady thump of his heart against her spine. The monitor on his nightstand was silent, a little green eye in the dark. Her mind, for the first time in months, didn’t spin forward into the next crisis. It replayed the feel of the window sill against her skin, the weight of the envelope on the coffee table, the solid certainty of his promise. She felt the decision settle into her marrow: she would call Meisha. She would hire the help.
Just as her consciousness began to fray at the edges, the monitor crackled. Not a cry, but a sound. A wet, gurgling cough. Then another.
Amber’s eyes flew open. Kash’s breathing had stopped behind her; his body went rigid.
Sincere’s cough was sharp, strained, followed by a frantic, gasping wheeze.
They were both moving before the second cough finished, the duvet thrown back like a ghost. Amber’s heart was a frantic bird against her ribs. Kash was already at the door, his movements terrifyingly precise.
“Grab the diaper bag,” he said, his voice low and stripped of all sleep. “My wallet and keys are on the console.”
Amber fumbled in the dark, her hands shaking as she snatched the pre-packed bag. Sincere’s wheezing echoed through the monitor, a horrible, wet rasp. She ran to the nursery, Kash right behind her.
The nightlight painted a cruel scene. Sincere’s tiny face was mottled, his chest working too hard. Each breath hitched. Sidnee was awake now, crying in sympathetic distress. The air smelled of sour milk and panic.
“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay,” Amber chanted, scooping Sincere up. His body felt hot and rigid. She held him against her shoulder, patting his back, but the wheezing didn’t clear. Kash swept Sidnee into his other arm, his face a mask of focused intensity.
“Car seats. Now. We’re going to Atrium.” He was already moving down the hall.
The midnight drive was a blur of streetlights and swallowed terror. Amber sat in the back, one hand on Sincere’s car seat, the other clutching her phone. She called the pediatrician’s after-hours line, her voice surprisingly steady as she recited the symptoms: the cough, the wheeze, the retracting skin between his ribs.
“You’re doing the right thing going to the ER,” the nurse on the line said. “Newborns with respiratory distress, don’t wait.”
Kash drove with a controlled aggression, cutting through the empty streets. He didn’t speak. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The luxurious interior of the car felt like a sarcophagus.
The ER intake was a jarring slam of fluorescent light and controlled chaos. A triage nurse took one look at Sincere’s pale, struggling form and bypassed the waiting room. They were ushered into a curtained bay, a resident appearing with a stethoscope that looked too large for Sincere’s chest.
“He’s working too hard to breathe,” the young doctor said, her brow furrowed. She called for respiratory therapy. The word “oxygen” was mentioned. Amber’s knees felt weak.
Kash shifted Sidnee’s carrier to his other hip and stepped forward. “His name is Sincere King. Born at thirty-eight weeks, no complications. No fever prior to tonight. This acute onset suggests possible RSV or bronchiolitis.” His voice was calm, clinical, a stark contrast to the wild fear in his eyes. He listed Sincere’s weight, his birth date, his pediatrician’s name.
The resident blinked, momentarily thrown by the concise medical history delivered in a parent’s voice. “Are you in healthcare?”
“I’m his father,” Kash said, the words leaving no room for further questions. “What’s your protocol for nasal suctioning? The bulb syringe isn’t cutting it.”
They hovered as a respiratory therapist suctioned thick mucus from Sincere’s tiny nose, a process that was mercifully quick but sounded agonizing. His cry after was hoarse, but the wheezing lessened slightly. They placed a pulse oximeter on his foot; the number read 92, then climbed to 94 with the cleared passage.
“We’ll need to admit him for observation,” the resident said. “We’ll start him on oxygen if his sats dip again, and monitor his hydration. We’ll run a viral panel.”
Admit. The word landed like a stone in Amber’s stomach. She looked at the plastic bassinet, at the wires, at her son so small in the standard-issue hospital gown. Kash’s arm came around her shoulders, solid and heavy.
“Okay,” he said to the doctor. Then, to Amber, his voice dropping, “He’s in the right place. They’ll help him.”
They were moved to a private room in the pediatric wing as the sky began to lighten. Sincere, exhausted, slept under the gentle glow of the oxygen monitor. Sidnee, oblivious in her carrier, finally slept too. The silence was filled with the beep of machines and the smell of antiseptic.
Amber sat in a rigid vinyl chair, staring at the rise and fall of Sincere’s chest. The adrenaline had burned off, leaving a hollow, cold dread. Kash stood by the window, staring out at the parking lot, one hand pressed to the glass.
“I didn’t even hear him get sick,” Amber whispered. The guilt was a physical taste, coppery and sharp. “I was sleeping. I was… we were…”
“Amber.” Kash’s voice cut through her spiral. He turned from the window. His eyes were red-rimmed but clear. “This is not your fault. Viruses don’t care if you’re awake. They don’t care how much money is in a bank account.”
He walked over, kneeling in front of her. He took her hands, her perfect, blinged-out nails now chipped from clutching car seats and diaper bags. “Look at me. He’s stable. His numbers are good. He’s fighting.”
A single tear tracked down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away. “I’ve never been so scared.”
“I know.” He rested his forehead against their joined hands. “Me neither.”
A nurse came in, cheerful and efficient, to check vitals. She explained the viral panel would take a few hours. She brought Amber a cup of terrible coffee. The normalcy of the gesture was almost absurd.
As the nurse left, Kash’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then silenced it. “It’s Paul. The market in Tokyo is opening.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Twenty million feels like Monopoly money right now.”
“It’s just… noise,” Amber said, watching Sincere’s chest.
The sun rose fully, painting the room in a harsh, honest light. A different doctor, older and with a kind weariness, came in with results. “It’s RSV. Very common. Nasty for little ones. He’s a good size, though, and he’s maintaining his oxygen. We’ll keep him on fluids and monitor. If he stays stable, you could be home in forty-eight hours.”
Home. The word had never sounded so beautiful or so far away.
Kash asked sharp, intelligent questions about lung sounds and discharge criteria. Amber just listened, holding onto the phrase “very common” like a rope. Common meant survivable. Common meant they weren’t uniquely cursed.
Later, when a lactation consultant brought her a hospital-grade pump, Amber sat in the corner, the electric whir joining the symphony of beeps. She stared at the envelope of cashmere baby blankets they’d brought, untouched. She looked at Kash, who was on his phone now, quietly rearranging his entire week, canceling meetings in New York, delegating calls to London.
He was building a fortress of logistics around this hospital room. She understood it now, this language of his. It was how he loved. Not just with whispers at a window, but with actions that moved mountains of inconvenience to clear a path.
“Hey,” she said softly.
He looked up.
“When we get home,” she said, her voice still rough, “call Paul back. Tell him to transfer the first installment to Meisha. A signing bonus. So she knows we’re serious.”
Kash looked at her for a long moment, then a slow, real smile touched his lips. It was tired, but it was there. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She looked at Sincere, at the steady green glow of his monitor. “I’m not leaving this. Any of this. Not for a ghost-whistle toilet. Not for a thousand Mrs. Henleys.”
He put his phone down, walked over, and kissed the top of her head. “Okay, General.”
A new nurse came in to take Sincere’s temperature. As she gently lifted his arm, his eyes fluttered open. They were cloudy, unfocused. He let out a thin, reedy cry—not the frantic wheeze from before, but the ordinary, pissed-off wail of a hungry, uncomfortable baby.
Amber and Kash locked eyes over the bassinet. And for the first time that night, they both breathed. It was just a cry. A normal, beautiful, exhausting cry.
The nurse smiled. “Sounds like someone’s feeling a bit better. Let’s see if he’ll take a bottle, mama.”
Amber reached for him, her hands no longer shaking. “Okay, little king,” she murmured, bringing him to her chest. “Let’s try.”