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The nurse finally looks at me, eyes dark brown and calculating. “Yes, sir. I understand that. She’s being taken care of and you can head down there now, but I need to confirm that you”—she looks to my chest, nods—“have your ID on you, the visitor’s pass, sign in.”

I take the clipboard she holds out and pass it behind me to Arthur, who takes it without a word and starts filling it out.

“Which way?”

* * *

A few minutes later, I’m following someone down a corridor that smells like disinfectant and something I can’t place that makes the hair on my arms stand up. Sounds of groaning behind closed doors distract me as I stride behind the nurse, who sets a surprisingly brutal pace.

Art and two of my men follow behind me until we reach the room.

“Stay here,” I command, not bothering to look at the three of them as I step into the room.

Then I see her.

Matilda is lying in the bed, surrounded by monitors and wires. Her hair is pulled back, her face pale, one hand gripping the sheet.

She looks terrified.

Not Matilda. Not my brilliant, ruthless lawyer who stood across from prosecutors without blinking. My woman.

I would do anything to quell that terror in her eyes. She looks at me like she’s been waiting for me, and I cross the room, dropping immediately into a chair dragged from nearby, reaching for her hand.

“How early is she? Is it too early?” My question is directed to Matilda, though immediately I see that she’s elsewhere mentally. Those blue eyes distant, brow crinkled in concentration. As if she’s not entirely in the room with me.

That’s horrifying.

The doctor steps toward me. “Mr. Borisov…”

“How early is my baby?”

“About five weeks. Matilda is thirty-five weeks along; you’re probably already aware…”

My stomach drops.

“That’s too early.”

“It is early,” the doctor says calmly. “But thirty-five weeks is considered late preterm. Most babies born at this gestation do very well. She may need additional monitoring, help maintaining her temperature, feeding support, or possibly some time in the NICU. But right now, we have no reason to assume the worst.”

“Then why is she in labor?”

“Because babies have terrible timing.”

I stare at him, not responding to the small smile he gives me, as if this is some kind of secret joke. He doesn’t flinch.

“I need you to sit back down,” he says. When did I even stand up? “And I need you to let us do our jobs.”

“I—”

“Mr. Borisov.”

There is something in his voice that stops me.

“You can be scared. You can be angry. But you cannot interfere with my staff. Your wife needs you calm.”

Wife.

The word catches somewhere beneath my ribs. It’s not true yet, but I want it to be. And that sits me right back down.