Chapter 1 - Abandoned On The Asphalt
My name is Claire.
That Tuesday morning, the fog clung heavy and cold to the windshield of Eric’s slate-gray sedan.
He was driving me toward Saint Jude’s Women’s Center for my routine thirty-two-week prenatal appointment before his morning executive presentation.
About fifteen minutes into the commute down the bypass, a savage tearing sensation ripped horizontally across my lower abdomen.
It was not the gentle dull tightening the prenatal pamphlets described as harmless Braxton Hicks contractions.
It felt as if a thick wire had snapped deep behind my navel and pulled inward with vicious force.
I instinctively doubled over, pressing both trembling palms against the firm dome of my belly.
The sudden spike of white-hot agony instantly drove all the oxygen out of my lungs.
“Eric, please pull over,” I choked out, my voice barely carrying above the steady hum of the climate control vents.
He did not even glance sideways away from the highway traffic.
His manicured fingers merely tightened around the leather-stitched steering wheel.
“You are completely fine, Claire,” he replied dismissively, checking his rearview mirror with cold detachment.
“No, Eric, listen to me,” I gasped as another spasm rolled over me, twice as violent as the first.
A wave of cold, greasy nausea flooded my throat as beads of clammy sweat broke out across my hairline.
“Something is seriously wrong inside me, please take the next exit right now.”
Instead of slowing down or hitting the hazard blinkers, Eric’s jaw ticked with sudden irritation.
He yanked the wheel hard to the right, cutting aggressively across two lanes without signaling.
The tires shrieked as he plunged down an industrial access road flanked by shuttered warehouses and high chain-link fences.
He slammed his foot down on the brakes so violently that my seatbelt locked into my ribs with a bruising jolt.
I groaned in pain, clutching my stomach to shield the baby from the sudden impact of the strap.
Eric turned in the driver’s seat, his face contorted into an ugly mask of seething condescension.
“You pull this pathetic dramatic routine every single time something matters to my career,” he hissed through clenched teeth.
“Every promotion, every client lunch, every important presentation, you suddenly invent an emergency because you cannot stand not being the center of attention.”
I stared at him in disbelief, my vision blurring around the edges from the sheer intensity of the physical pain.
“Eric, I am eight months pregnant with our daughter,” I whispered, tears spilling hot over my cheeks.
“Stop lying, Claire,” he snapped, reaching across the console to rip my seatbelt release buckle open.
Before I could process what he was doing, he kicked his driver’s door open and marched around the front hood of the car.
The morning wind whipped his tailored suit jacket as he yanked my passenger door wide.
He did not offer a supporting hand or check to see if I was bleeding.
He reached straight inside, wrapped his strong fingers around my bare upper arm, and dug his nails in.
“Eric, stop, you’re hurting my arm!” I cried out, struggling against his iron grip.
“Then get your lazy ass out of my vehicle,” he snarled, dragging me forward with brutal leverage.
My canvas sneakers hit the rough, oil-stained pavement, and my knees instantly buckled beneath the dead weight of my body.
I collapsed onto the curb, scraping my elbows against the jagged concrete edge.
Another vicious abdominal cramp seized my pelvis, forcing me to fold in half on the cold stone.
“Please, Eric, I need to get to Saint Jude’s,” I begged, looking up at him from the filthy pavement.
He adjusted his designer cufflinks with utter calm, showing neither hesitation nor pity.
He stepped back into the warm cabin of the sedan and pulled the door shut with a heavy mechanical thud.
Through the glass, I saw my leather tote bag and my smartphone resting on the passenger floor mat where they had dropped.
“My purse is still inside!” I screamed, pounding the flat of my palm against the passenger window.
“My phone and my insurance card are in there!”
Eric lowered the tinted electric window just two inches, looking down at me with cold indifference.
“You’ll figure it out,” he said evenly.
The glass slid back up into the frame, sealing him inside his quiet, climate-controlled bubble.
He revved the engine, shifted into drive, and accelerated down the deserted service street without tapping his brakes once.
The exhaust smoke blew directly into my face, leaving me coughing and retching on my knees beside the curb.
I tried to push myself upright against the warehouse fence, but the burning pain in my lower pelvis pinned me to the ground.
I looked down at the hem of my pale yellow maternity dress.
A dark, spreading crimson stain was soaking through the fabric near my inner thigh.
Terror seized my heart, far deeper and more terrifying than the physical pain ripping through my tissues.
“Hold on, sweet girl, please just hold on,” I sobbed, pressing both shaking hands over my womb.
There was no pedestrian traffic on this forgotten stretch of asphalt, and every passing delivery truck seemed miles away.
My phone was vanishing down the highway in Eric’s passenger seat, leaving me utterly stranded without help.
The sky grew darker gray, and the distant rumble of morning thunder rolled across the horizon.
Just as my vision began to tunnel into blackness from shock, a pair of sharp halogen headlights illuminated the chain-link fence behind me.
A weathered blue minivan swerved onto the gravel shoulder and came to an abrupt, skidding stop.
A woman in faded scrubs scrambled out from the driver’s side, leaving her car door swinging wide open in the wind.
“Oh God, honey, don’t try to move!” she shouted, running toward me across the cracked pavement.
She dropped to her knees directly in the dirt beside me, pulling off her fleece jacket to wad it under my shivering shoulders.
“My name is Dana, I work triage at county health,” she said, her voice commanding and calm as her hands assessed my pulse.
“I saw that silver Mercedes speed off, and I saw that bastard push you out of the passenger side.”
“My baby,” I wheezed, grabbing the sleeve of her scrub top with frantic fingers.
“I know, honey, I see the bleeding, just breathe through your nose,” Dana instructed while whipping her phone from her pocket.
She punched three numbers, put the device to her ear, and spoke with razor-sharp authority into the receiver.
“This is Dana Miller, certified triage RN, badge four-eight-two, I need an immediate advanced life support rig to the abandoned lumber warehouse off Route Nine.”
“We have a twenty-eight-year-old female, thirty-two weeks gestation, active vaginal hemorrhage, severe abdominal trauma, and signs of an acute placental abruption.”
“She was physically shoved onto the asphalt by the driver of an outbound gray sedan who fled the scene with her identification.”
Dana squeezed my freezing fingers tightly as the dispatcher confirmed the dispatch code over the speaker.
“You are not alone anymore, Claire,” Dana whispered, leaning down so her eyes were inches from mine.
May you like
“I watched every single second of what that man did to you.”
“And I am not leaving your side until you and your child are safe behind locked hospital doors.”
