How do I tell Viktor he’s the father of my baby?
My daughter.
Sienna knew. She has known for months. She tried to tell me, and I let every lie, every accusation, every ugly scene pull us farther from that truth. I think of her in the hospital bed, pale and exhausted, trying to speak before Maksim came in. I think of the way she looked at me when I said I was the father for the forms.
She almost told me then.
I should have stayed.
The thought follows me through the automatic doors, past the reception desk, down the corridor toward her room. I move fastenough that two nurses look up, then look away when they see my face.
Her door is half-open.
The bed is empty.
For a second, I stop.
The blanket is folded back. The chair beside the bed is pushed slightly out. Her water cup is still there. The monitor is off.
No Sienna.
I step into the room.
“Sienna.”
Nothing.
The bathroom door is open. Empty.
I turn back into the hallway. A nurse is walking past with a tray in her hands.
“Where is she?”
The nurse pauses. “Who?”
“The woman in this room.”
She looks toward the bed, then back at me. “She may have gone home.”
I turn my head slowly and look at her. “Gone home?”
The nurse’s confidence falters at once. “I don’t know, sir. I just came on shift.”
“Her baby is still in the NICU. Or do you discharge NICU babies in a day too?”
Her face goes pale. For a second she says nothing, and that silence is the first real answer she gives me.
“Take me there,” I say.
“To the NICU?”
“Yes.”
She nods quickly and starts walking, relieved to have a task. I follow her down the corridor, past the nurses’ station, past two doctors speaking quietly outside another room, past a family huddled near a vending machine with paper cups untouched in their hands.
Everything about the hospital feels wrong now.
“What name is the baby registered under?” the nurse asks.