Married to the Billionaire Who Betrayed Me novel Chapter 45

Chapter 45 The Secret Johnston Heir Arrives

The ceiling lights flashed above me in a relentless white rhythm. The wheels of the hospital bed rattled against the linoleum floor. Dr. Vargas issued commands to the nurses. His voice sounded distant. A vicious tearing sensation ripped through my lower

abdomen. I gripped the metal side rails. I squeezed my eyes shut.

The surgical wing smelled of bleach and iodine. The nurses shifted my body onto a cold delivery table. A massive surgical lamp

ignited above my head. The glare blinded me.

Another contraction hit. My spine arched off the mattress. I screamed. The sound echoed off the sterile tile walls.

I opened my eyes and looked at the empty space beside the bed.

Tristan. The name surfaced in my mind. He promised to stand right there. He made a vow in a quiet courthouse. He promised to hold my hand and welcome our child into the world. He promised we would build a family.

Those promises were ashes. He stood beside Celeste Whitmore. He posed for the cameras. He secured his corporate merger. He left

me to face this agony in a room full of strangers.

“Push, Minerva,” Dr. Vargas ordered.

Sweat stung my eyes. I bore down. The monitors blared in the background. The world shrank to the intense, burning pressure in my core. I pushed until black spots danced across my vision. I pushed until my lungs burned for oxygen.

The pressure vanished.

Silence filled the operating room.

A terrible silence. It stretched for one heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Three. I stopped breathing. I stared at the ceiling tiles. Panic

seized my chest.

Then, a sound broke the quiet.

A high, thin cry.

A ragged sob escaped my throat. Tears blurred my vision. I tried to lift my head. I needed to see him.

“He is small, Dr. Vargas stated. His tone carried professional urgency. “Get the incubator.”

A team of neonatal nurses swarmed the end of the bed. They blocked my view. They moved in a blur of blue scrubs. They whisked

the tiny life away to a warming table.

“Let me see him, I begged. My voice cracked. My arms felt heavy and useless.

We need to stabilize his breathing, Minerva,” a nurse said. She pressed a gentle hand against my shoulder, forcing me back against

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Chapter 45 The Secret Johnston Heir Arrives

the mattress. “He is eight weeks premature. His lungs need support.”

I fought her grip. I wanted to fight them all. But the exhaustion crashed over me like a concrete wall. The edges of the room turned

dark. The darkness pulled me under.

The steady beep of a heart monitor anchored me to the waking world.

I opened my eyes. Dim yellow light filled the recovery room. The air felt cool against my skin. I turned my head on the stiff hospital

pillow.

A shadow occupied the plastic chair in the corner.

Eduardo Valdez sat with his hands resting on the brass handle of his wooden cane. His thick tweed overcoat looked out of place in

the sterile room. He watched me wake. He did not speak.

He stayed. The man I met in a freezing alley sat vigil while I gave birth. My own husband abandoned me, but this retired founder

refused to let me wake up alone.

“You survived, Eduardo said. His gravel voice carried a quiet warmth.

“My baby,” I rasped. My throat felt like sandpaper. ‘Where is my baby?”

Eduardo stood up. He leaned his weight on his cane. “He is strong. The doctors stabilized his breathing. I paid the hospital administrator in cash. Your intake forms remain sealed. Your real name does not exist on the public registry.”

The heavy wooden door swung open. A neonatal nurse pushed a clear plastic bassinet into the room. A complex machine rolled

beside it, humming with quiet power.

I pushed myself up. Pain flared deep in my pelvis. I ignored the agony. I leaned forward, my eyes fixed on the plastic box.

The nurse positioned the bassinet next to my bed. “He is doing well,” she offered with a tired smile. “He breathes on his own, but we

keep the oxygen tube for support.”

I looked through the clear plastic.

He was tiny. A knit cap covered his head. Thin wires connected his small chest to the humming machine. His skin possessed a fragile quality. His chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow movements.

He possessed a shock of dark hair. He possessed the sharp, distinct curve of Tristan’s jawline.

My heart broke and remade itself in the same second. The world outside this room ceased to matter.

He needs a name for the medical chart, the nurse prompted.

I reached my hand through the circular port in the plastic shield. My index finger brushed against his tiny palm.

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