The CEO's Promise: Mommy, I Found Love Too

Trigger Warning: This chapter contains themes of loss, premature birth, stillbirth, and parental grief. Reader discretion is advised. [EVIE] The smell of vanilla frosting and balloons fills the small hall, blending with the chatter of my friends and family. The room is warm, and I can feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on me as I stand in front of the cake, a tall pink-and-white confection adorned with sparklers. The number 16 shines boldly on top, glinting in the flickering candlelight. My heart races, but not from excitement. Jude leans casually against the wall at the far end of the room, his dark hair falling perfectly into place like always. His eyes meet mine briefly, and he gives me a subtle, encouraging nod. No one knows about us — not my parents, not even my closest friends. I should be focused on the moment, but all I can think about is how I want him beside me, how his hand on mine would calm the nervous energy buzzing through me. Mom sits near the corner, a hand resting lightly on her belly. Her face is flushed but calm, her laughter soft as she chats with Dad, who leans protectively over her chair. Dad’s always been like that — grounded, steady, always ready to sweep in if the world so much as tries to wobble beneath us. Joel, my two-year-old brother, is squirming in Aunt Mila’s lap, his chubby fingers grabbing at the air, trying to catch the streamers. Lily and Carl, the eight-year-old twins, are in their own world, giggling as they pop balloon after balloon. Everything feels picture-perfect, and I almost believe it. But as I take the knife in my hand, ready to cut into the cake, Mom’s chair scrapes sharply against the floor. I glance up, confused, just as her face contorts into something that makes my stomach drop. “Cassie?” Dad’s voice is sharp, worried. He’s on his feet in an instant. Mom’s hand moves to her belly. “It’s too early,” she murmurs, her voice tight as she winces. “Seven months. Like Joel.” But it’s not like Joel. The dark stain spreading across her lavender dress confirms that, and Dad notices it at the same moment I do. His face pales, and for the first time in my life, he looks genuinely afraid. “Blood,” he mutters, his voice breaking. “There’s — Cassie, you’re bleeding.” Chaos erupts around me. Aunt Kinsley is already by Mom’s side, her phone pressed to her ear, calling for an ambulance. People are standing, murmuring, panicking. Joel starts crying, and Lily and Carl cling to Mila, wide-eyed and scared. I can’t move. My heart pounds in my chest, my hands trembling as I clutch the knife, frozen. Jude appears beside me. “Evie, you need to breathe,” he says, his hand brushing against mine briefly before pulling away. His touch grounds me enough to let the knife drop onto the table with a clatter. Dad lifts Mom into his arms, and she protests weakly, insisting she can walk, but he doesn’t listen. His movements are quick but careful, his eyes darting between her face and the growing stain on her dress. He looks like he’s holding the world together by sheer willpower. “I’m going with you,” I blurt out, breaking free from my paralysis. “No,” Dad says sharply, but his gaze softens when he sees my face. “Stay here. Stay with the kids.” “No,” I insist, louder this time. “I’m coming. Please, Dad.” He hesitates, but Mom places a shaky hand on his arm, her other clutching her belly. “Let her,” she whispers as if she can’t gather the strength to speak louder. In the blur of the ambulance ride and the rush into the hospital, I cling to the sound of Mom’s voice, steady despite the fear I can see in her eyes. But when we arrive, it’s not her voice I hear anymore — it’s the hurried instructions of nurses, the beeping of machines, and the doctor’s grave tone as he says, “Placental abruption. She needs surgery now.” Dad’s face crumples. I’ve never seen him look like this before — so helpless, so lost. He’s handed a clipboard with papers to sign, and his hands tremble as he grips the pen. For a moment, his eyes meet mine, and I see tears glistening there. I want to ask if the baby’s going to die, but the words stick in my throat. He signs. Minutes stretch into hours, or maybe it’s the other way around. Time loses meaning. When we’re finally allowed to see Mom, she’s pale and unconscious, hooked up to machines that beep softly in the dim light of the hospital room. Dad sits by her side, his head in his hands. His shoulders shake with silent sobs, and I realise he’s crying. I didn’t know he could cry. In the incubator across the room lies my baby sister. Rora. She’s impossibly small, her tiny chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. The doctor’s voice echoes in my mind: “We did everything we could.” I don’t need him to explain what that means. I step closer, my breath hitching as I take in the fragile form of the sister I’ll never get to know. My throat tightens, and I swallow hard, trying to push down the sob threatening to escape. Dad finally looks up, his eyes red and glassy. “Evie,” he whispers, his voice broken. “I’m so sorry.” I don’t know if he’s apologising for Rora or for the way everything feels like it’s shattering around us. I nod, choking on a sob. “Hi, Rora,” I whisper. “I’m your big sister.” But I already know this is goodbye. Hours later, when Rora is gone, the room is deafeningly silent. Mom is still unconscious, unaware of everything, unaware that her little girl, our little girl, is gone. And Dad — Dad is so still, so silent, I can’t even remember when he last spoke. He just sits there, staring at the sterile white walls as though they might hold the answers, as if they could fix this. And me? I feel like I’ve lost more than a sister tonight. I’ve lost a part of myself. I know, deep down, that things will never be the same. Not for them. Not for me. Not for any of us.