Chapter 2 Denied

Seraphina's POV

The pain doesn't fade.

It spreads.

It tears through me in sharp, burning waves that steal the air from my lungs and make my vision swim. I try to scream, but all that comes out is a broken sound, thin and useless, swallowed by the wide, silent bedroom.

My body hits the cold marble floor, hard.

I curl instinctively, both hands clutching my stomach, my mind screaming one thought over and over again.

Please. Not my baby. Please.

I feel something warm between my legs.

Too warm.

Panic crashes into me so fast it makes me dizzy. I shift, shaking, my fingers trembling as I reach down. When I pull my hand back up, it's smeared red.

Blood.

"No," I whisper. "No, no, no..."

My heart starts racing wildly, each beat loud and uneven in my ears. My breath comes out fast and shallow, like I'm drowning on dry land.

I try to push myself up.

My arms give out.

"Help!" I cry, my voice cracking. "Please-someone help me!"

The room spins. The walls tilt. I barely hear the sound of footsteps rushing in before hands grab me, voices shouting over each other.

"Call an ambulance!"

"Careful-she's bleeding!"

"Mrs. Ashford, can you hear me?"

I blink up at unfamiliar faces-staff, pale and alarmed, hovering above me. Someone presses a towel between my legs. Someone else keeps asking me questions I can't answer.

My chest burns.

"Julian," I gasp. "Call Julian..."

Darkness closes in around the edges of my vision.

The ambulance smells like metal and disinfectant.

The siren screams as loud as my heart feels like it's beating. I'm strapped down, lights flashing above me, hands poking and prodding, voices sharp and urgent.

"Blood pressure dropping."

"She's pregnant."

"How far along?"

"Early weeks."

I clutch the sheet with white-knuckled fingers, tears sliding down into my hair.

"My baby," I whisper. "Please... my baby."

A paramedic with tired eyes leans closer. "We're doing everything we can, okay? Just stay with me."

I nod, though fear claws at my throat.

We reach the hospital too fast and not fast enough at the same time.

They wheel me through bright hallways, my body jolting with every turn. Nurses and doctors blur past, their voices loud, rushed, detached.

"Name?"

"Seraphina Cole-Ashford."

"Age?"

"Twenty-six."

"Who's the husband?"

"Julian Ashford."

The moment that name leaves my lips, something changes.

I feel it before I see it.

The nurse pushing my bed slows.

Another nurse glances at the chart, then at me, then back at the chart.

Their urgency dulls.

The doors swing open, and I'm wheeled into a curtained area instead of an operating room.

"Wait," I gasp. "Why are we stopping?"

A nurse with tight lips avoids my eyes. "Just a moment, Mrs. Ashford."

"I'm bleeding," I say, my voice rising in panic. "I need a doctor."

"We're aware," she replies, not sounding concerned at all.

The pain intensifies, a sharp, tearing sensation that makes me cry out.

"Please," I beg. "Something's wrong."

Another nurse joins her. She's older, stern-looking, her mouth set in a straight line.

"Has anyone contacted Mrs. Ashford Senior?" the older nurse asks.

The younger one shakes her head. "Not yet."

"Do that," the older nurse says. "And don't move her until we hear back."

I stare at them, disbelief cutting through the pain.

"Hear back from who?" I ask. "What are you talking about?"

Neither of them answers me.

Blood soaks through the towel between my legs. I can feel it. Warm. Constant.

"Please," I whisper again. "I'm begging you."

The older nurse finally looks at me. Her eyes are cold. Professional. Empty.

"We've been instructed to wait."

"Instructed?" I repeat. "By who?"

She doesn't answer.

"I need help now!" I cry. "You can't just leave me like this!"

The younger nurse shifts uncomfortably. "Mrs. Ashford, try to stay calm."

"Calm?" I laugh hysterically, tears streaming down my face. "I'm losing my baby!"

The nurses step back.

They stand there.

Waiting.

Minutes pass.

Each one feels like an hour.

The pain becomes unbearable, sharp and deep, like something is being ripped out of me from the inside. I scream. I sob. I beg.

"Nurse!" I cry. "Please-please help me!"

No one moves.

I see them whispering near the nurses' station, glancing at me, then away.

I feel small.

Powerless.

Disposable.

My phone lies on the tray beside me. With shaking hands, I grab it and dial Julian.

It rings.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Voicemail.

I sob into the empty air.

"Julian," I whisper. "Please... I need you."

I hang up and try again.

No answer.

Blood pools beneath me now. I can feel the warmth spreading, soaking into the sheets.

"God," I whisper. "Please..."

A doctor finally appears, a tall man with tired eyes and a rushed expression. He glances at my chart, then at the nurses.

"What's going on?" he asks.

"She's bleeding heavily," the younger nurse says.

"And why hasn't she been prepped?" he snaps.

The older nurse stiffens. "We were told to wait."

"By who?"

She hesitates. "The Ashford family."

The doctor's jaw tightens.

He looks at me then, really looks at me, and something flickers in his eyes. Pity. Anger. Helplessness.

"Get her into the OR," he orders.

The older nurse shakes her head. "We can't."

The doctor stares at her. "Excuse me?"

"We were instructed-"

"I don't care who instructed you," he says sharply. "She's crashing."

The pain spikes suddenly, violently.

I scream.

The world blurs.

Hands finally rush toward me. Voices rise. Chaos erupts.

But it feels too late.

Something inside me gives way.

The pain fades abruptly, replaced by a terrifying emptiness.

My vision tunnels.

The sounds around me stretch and warp.

I hear a beeping noise, slow and uneven.

I feel cold.

So cold.

Someone is shouting my name.

Someone is pressing on my chest.

The beeping turns into a long, continuous sound.

Flatline alarm.