MY MOTHER ONLY TURNS SIXTY-FIVE ONCE! IF IT HURTS SO MUCH, CALL A CAB!”
That’s what my husband, Vance, said to me while I lay writhing on the floor of our house, thirty-nine weeks pregnant and bleeding without stopping.“Vance… my water broke! There’s so much blood! Our baby isn’t moving!”
I begged for help between contractions, but on the other end of the phone I could still hear music and champagne glasses clinking at a lavish party in Queen Anne.
Then my mother-in-law cut in, her voice ice-cold:
“Vance, honey! Is she putting on a show again to ruin my birthday?”My husband let out an irritated sigh.
“Natalie, I don’t have time for your hysterics! Get a ride and go to the ER at Harborview. I’ll call you after dessert!”
AND HE HUNG UP.
My name is Natalie Brooks Mercer. That night I understood that my husband would rather keep celebrating his mother’s birthday than help me save our son.The pain tore through my body.
I dragged myself desperately across the hardwood floor toward the entryway. As I tried to brace myself against the hall table, I accidentally knocked over a stack of mail.
A thick ivory envelope fell beside me.
It had the name of a prestigious Seattle law firm printed on it in gold letters.Why would they be sending me a confidential notice?
But another brutal contraction stopped me from thinking.
With the last of my strength, I managed to unlock the deadbolt and dial 911.“The ambulance is on its way! Please, stay conscious!” the operator kept saying.Then headlights cut through the rain and lit up the foyer.
I heard hurried footsteps on the porch.
The oak door swung open.
“NATALIE! ARE YOU NATALIE BROOKS MERCER?”
An older man in an elegant dark coat, soaked through, appeared before me.
I recognized him immediately.
WARREN STERLING!
The powerful billionaire who chaired the financial conglomerate where my husband worked. The man whose name alone was enough to make Vance tremble!
But there was something even more disconcerting.
His gray eyes and severe eyebrows were uncannily like mine.
Warren dropped to his knees beside me.
He looked at me as if he had just found someone lost for thirty-two years.
Then that voice, which normally commanded respect, broke completely.
“DON’T MOVE, MY GIRL… I’M HERE NOW. YOU WILL NEVER BE ALONE AGAIN!”
I froze.
Why was a billionaire I had never met speaking to me with such tenderness? And who had he been searching for all those thirty-two years?
PART 2: MY HUSBAND ABANDONED ME PREGNANT TO GO TO A PARTY, NOT KNOWING THE BILLIONAIRE WHO CAME TO RESCUE ME WAS MY FATHER
“Why?” I managed to ask as medication flowed through my veins and a wave of pain ripped through my abdomen. “Mr. Sterling… why were you outside my house?”
Warren Sterling swallowed hard. He pulled a white handkerchief from the pocket of his elegant jacket and carefully wiped the cold sweat from my forehead. This man was the founder of the enormous business empire where my husband, Vance Mercer, had spent seven years trying to climb the ladder. Now he sat beside me in an ambulance, wearing an expression of anguish I never would have expected from someone so powerful.
“My private investigator confirmed your identity barely two hours ago, Natalie,” he answered as the sirens wailed around us. “I had no idea you were married to Vance Mercer. We sent two certified letters over the past six weeks, but we never received a reply.”
My heart clenched. Suddenly I remembered a cream-colored envelope I had found torn open by our front door. Vance had said it was corporate junk mail and tossed it before I could look at it.
“He knew,” I whispered. “Vance got a certified letter five weeks ago. I remember seeing his signature on the delivery receipt.”
Warren stared at me, horrified. We understood at the same moment that my husband hadn’t only abandoned me in a medical emergency to go to a party. He might also have deliberately hidden communications about my real family.
Before we could say more, the ambulance braked hard in front of Harborview Medical Center. The rear doors flew open and several medical staff rushed over with a gurney.
“Obstetric emergency!” the paramedic announced. “Possible placental abruption and signs of severe fetal distress! We need immediate intervention!”
The hospital lights streamed over my face as they wheeled me toward the operating room. An obstetrician leaned over me and spoke with a gravity that froze me with fear.
“Natalie, your baby isn’t getting enough oxygen. We have to perform an emergency C-section.”
“Please, save him!” I begged through tears. “Do whatever it takes, but save my son!”
A nurse prepared the consent forms while the team organized the procedure. “Is your husband, Vance Mercer, here?” she asked.
I shook my head weakly. “No. He’s not coming.”
Then Warren stepped up beside my gurney. His face had lost all the impenetrable authority he showed in corporate meetings.
“I’m her father,” he declared, his voice firm even as his hands trembled. “Please do everything medically necessary to save my daughter and my grandson. Don’t worry about the cost.”
I wanted to take his hand and ask why it had taken him so many years to find me. I wanted to tell him I was scared, that I didn’t want to lose my baby, that I still couldn’t understand how my life had changed so brutally in just a few hours.
But a mask covered my face.
I heard the team’s rapid instructions and felt myself slipping out of consciousness.
Then a different alarm sounded.
A continuous, shrill, terrifying beep.
The fetal monitor had stopped registering my son’s heartbeat.
And as everything slowly faded before my eyes, the last thing I heard was a doctor shout:
“We have to get the baby out right now!”
