Chapter 2 - The Hospital Gates
The cab driver looked at me twice in the rearview mirror as we pulled up to the emergency entrance of Cassian Medical Center. My coat was damp, my hair was pinned back haphazardly with a claw clip, and I was holding a small canvas duffel bag I’d managed to pack with two pairs of maternity leggings and a phone charger before leaving the house.
"You okay, miss?" the driver asked, keeping the meter running as another flash of lightning lit up the limestone facade of the building.
"Just contractions," I said, handing him a fifty-dollar bill and telling him to keep the change. "Drive safe."
The automatic sliding doors hissed open, hitting me with the familiar, sterile smell of bleach, floor wax, and instant coffee. The lobby was nearly empty at this hour, save for a security guard dozing behind the circular welcome desk and a young resident scrolling through his tablet near the elevators.
I didn't stop at triage. I knew the layout of Cassian by heart. For two years, I had brought Samuel late-night dinners here, walked these corridors during his 24-hour shifts, and smiled at the nurses who now looked at me with varying degrees of professional sympathy.
When I stepped out onto the fourth-floor obstetrics wing, the quiet was absolute.
A nurse at the central station—a young temp I didn't recognize—looked up as my sneakers squeaked on the linoleum. "Can I help you?"
"I'm Camila Caldwell," I said, my voice cutting through the hum of the fetal monitors down the hall. "Dr. Samuel Anderson's wife. I need a labor suite."
The nurse's fingers danced across her keyboard, her eyes flickering to the monitor. "Oh—Mrs. Caldwell. We weren't expecting you yet. Dr. Anderson is... well, he’s currently in surgery, but let me page the on-call resident—"
"Don't page Samuel," I said, stepping closer to the desk until the plastic counter separated us. "And don't page Jessica Vance, either. I know she's on duty. I want Dr. Thomas."
Before the young nurse could process the command, a door down the corridor clicked open.
Jessica stepped out into the hallway.
She looked immaculate, as she always did. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a French twist that didn't have a single stray strand, her scrubs were crisp, and she was carrying a stack of patient charts. But as her eyes landed on me standing near the nurses' station, the clipboard in her hands slipped an inch before she caught herself.
"Camila," Jessica said, her voice dropping into that smooth, practiced syrup she used when delivering bad news to anxious families. "What are you doing here? Your contractions must be false alarms—Samuel said you were resting at home."
I walked down the hall toward her, my stride steady despite the dull ache settling deep into my hips.
"Samuel talks too much when he thinks he's off the clock," I said, stopping three feet away from her. "Where is he, Jessica? Last I checked, obstetricians don't perform emergency appendectomies at four in the morning."
Jessica’s jaw tightened, just a fraction. The syrup vanished, replaced by the sharp, defensive glare of a woman who realized the game had changed.
"Dr. Anderson is scrubbed in on an emergency C-section in Suite 3," Jessica said coolly, lifting her chin. "If you're in labor, I suggest you let me get Dr. Thomas. Personal drama doesn't stop because you decided to show up unannounced."
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"Oh, it's not personal drama anymore, Jessica," I whispered, pulling my phone from my coat pocket and letting the screen light up between us. "Arthur just read his texts."
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