I Can Hear My Unborn Baby’s Thoughts, and We’re Taking Down the Other Woman Together Chapter 05

I Can Hear My Unborn Baby’s Thoughts, and We’re Taking Down the Other Woman Together Chapter 05

The second I said “no,” the door pushed open a little more.

That “stubborn ox” the nurse was talking about—the one who’d sat on that bench all night—was now standing in the doorway, holding a stainless steel thermos. His huge frame blocked the whole entrance like a wall.

The nurse took the hint, set down her tray, and slipped out, closing the door behind her.

It was just the two of us.

Declan didn’t come near me right away. He looked down at his gray jacket, spotted with a few drops of dew. With a frown, he stripped it off and tossed it onto the far sofa.

Then he went into the bathroom, washed his hands with soap three times, even dried between each finger with paper towels, and only then—warm and clean—did he dare approach my bed.

He put the thermos on the nightstand and unscrewed the lid. Inside was thick, creamy oatmeal with dried cranberries and honey, steam still rising off it.

Then he pulled a chair over, sat exactly two feet away, and just watched me with those bloodshot, dark eyes.

Outside, muffled arguing broke out.

“Mr. Thompson, Declan’s behavior is textbook traumatic transference!

He’s refusing my treatment—this is a disaster for his memory recovery!” Sloane’s voice was sharp, frustrated. “And Ms. Bennett’s identity is still up in the air. What if she sets him off again?”

I dropped my gaze, the tiny bit of warmth I’d felt cooling instantly.

Declan noticed the shift in my mood. His face—so careful, almost shy when he looked at me—turned to ice the moment he glanced toward the door.

He stood up, strode over, and yanked it open.

Outside, Sloane was arguing with Thompson, clutching a stack of so-called “psych evaluations.” When she saw Declan, her eyes lit up, and she switched to her warm, concerned voice.

“Captain Hayes, you haven’t rested all night. Come back to the rehab center for a—”

She didn’t finish.

Declan snatched the stack from her hands and, with a loud RIP, tore them to shreds in front of everyone in the hallway. Paper scraps fluttered down like snow all over Sloane.

“Captain Hayes, what—” Sloane’s face went white with disbelief.

Declan didn’t even look at her. He pulled out his work phone, typed furiously, and held the screen up for Thompson to see.

On it, one line of vicious, unyielding text:

[Effective immediately, Sloane Whitmore is relieved of all duties

related to my psychological care.]

[Any unauthorized personnel who try to get near my wife’s room will be treated as a hostile threat to a level one protectee. Maximum Protective Force Protocol is in effect.]

[Now get lost.]

Declan was a key operator in a global rescue organization. The second he switched into combat mode, the raw, brutal force rolling off him was more than Sloane could handle.

Thompson read the screen, looked at the murder in Declan’s eyes, and immediately grasped the situation. He grabbed Sloane by the arm before she could argue further. “Dr. Whitmore, you need to leave. Now. This area is under security team control.”

The hallway finally went quiet.

Declan shut the door. When he turned back, all the violence in his eyes had been tucked away. He crept back to the chair like a big dog afraid of cracking thin ice.

He saw I wasn’t eating the oatmeal, so he picked up the bowl, scooped up a spoonful, blew on it carefully, and then—hesitant, clumsy—held it to my lips.

I watched his hands shake. Those hands that had gripped rescue tools and rappelling ropes now trembled with fear of doing something wrong.

I couldn’t help it. I turned my head away.

“Declan, you don’t have to do this.” I looked at him, my voice flat as still water. “Look, now that the whole mess is cleared up, let’s just handle the paperwork after I get out. You go back to your rescue group. I’ll raise the baby myself. Let’s just pretend… we ended things in that fire five months ago.”

Clink.

The spoon fell back into the bowl, splashing warm oatmeal.

Declan stared at me, his eyes turning red instantly. He shook his head hard, desperate to speak, but only managed, “Ah… no…” —broken sounds.

Frantic, he grabbed the tablet from the table, his fingers white-knuckled. He typed and deleted, typed and deleted, and finally held it up with four crooked, huge words:

[DEATH WON’T PART US]

I looked at his pathetic, desperate face and turned away.

For the next three days, Declan set up camp in my room.

He didn’t try to talk me into forgiving him. Instead, he took over my life with the “hardcore tactics” of a rescue operator.

Day one he measured every inch of the room with a tape measure and an infrared rangefinder. He replaced the hospital’s nonslip mats with military-grade fireproof flooring. He even swapped out the bed’s casters for heavy-duty locking wheels so it wouldn’t budge an inch.

Day two he drew an incredibly detailed Emergency Evacuation & Medical Access Map on the whiteboard in the room. It marked the shortest routes from my bed to the OB operating room, the blood bank, even the rooftop helipad—and the exact seconds each route would take.

Day three he brought a thick stack of documents and called in my primary doctor and the head nurse. I was lying in bed reading when he laid the papers out.

The top one was the Family Privilege & Emergency Authorization from the rescue group.

He took a pen and, on every single line, “Sole Emergency Contact,” “Primary Medical Decision Maker,” “Exclusive Beneficiary of Survivor’s Benefits and Assets”—he wrote two words in heavy, deliberate strokes: Sage Hayes.

And on the rehab file that Sloane had tampered with, he used a thick marker to scribble out her name completely. Next to it, he wrote in bold: [WIFE: SAGE HAYES.]

[Whoa…]

My baby’s voice popped up again, sounding impressed.

[Daddy just handed you his whole life, Mom! Look, he pressed so hard he almost tore the paper!]

I looked at the authorization form he’d shoved into my hands, and something hit me hard in the chest, soft and aching.

“What’s all this for?” My eyes burned, but I held back the tears and pointed at the crazy escape map on the whiteboard.

“Declan, I’m carrying your baby, not a live C4. You don’t have to treat me like a bomb disposal.”

Declan looked at me, his dark eyes dead serious. He picked up the tablet, lowered his head, and carefully typed with one finger.

A few seconds later, he turned the screen toward me.

It read:

[To me, you’re a hundred times more dangerous than any bomb. Losing you would be worse than dying myself.]

That sentence hit my armor like a battering ram.

The tears fell before I could stop them.

Declan panicked. He dropped the tablet, grabbed tissues, and tried to wipe my face, but he was too scared to touch me. He just stood there, sweating, making helpless sounds in his throat.

[Mom, can you forgive him just a little?]

My baby’s voice, usually so bouncy, suddenly went soft and sad.

[In the past life, after you and I died… they found Dad. But when he found out that Grandma and that woman lied, that you went through all that pain alone… he lost his mind.]

I went rigid, forgetting to even wipe my tears.

[He locked himself in that leaky basement we had. He didn’t sleep in the bed. He just curled up on the cold floor every day, holding one of your old shirts.]

[And then, when he went back to work, there was this huge earthquake. He pushed a pregnant lady out of the rubble and got crushed by a concrete slab…]

[Mom, right before he died… he smiled. The only time. He said he could finally go apologize to you.]

My baby’s voice was thick with tears, echoing in my head.

I lifted my head, looking through blurry eyes at this man who was frantic because I was crying, who had nothing in his eyes but me, who would cut himself open for me if I asked.

His clothes were wrinkled from taking care of me. His jaw was rough with stubble. He looked so pathetic.

I took a deep breath, my eyes still red, and slowly reached out. I grabbed the hem of his shirt.

Declan’s whole body jerked. He looked down at me in disbelief.

“Declan,” I said, my voice thick and nasal. “I want some of that oatmeal you made.”

In that moment, I saw it clearly: this iron man who never flinched at blood or sweat—his tears finally broke free.

He nodded hard, like a forgiven believer, and went to get the thermos

from the nightstand.

Then—thump.

A small notebook fell out of his pocket, right next to my hand.

I picked it up and opened it. And froze.

It was an old, worn notebook, filled front to back with handwriting.

Page after page. Names.

Everett Hayes. Grant Hayes. Felix Hayes. Miles Hayes.

Some were crossed out. Some circled. Next to each, he’d used rescue group tactical symbols to mark “risk resistance level” and “lucky meaning.”

[Pfft—]

My baby’s sadness vanished, replaced by giggles and teasing.

[Everett? Grant? He actually wrote those down? I don’t like these names! I’d get destroyed in kindergarten with a name like that. Mom, please, do something!]

I looked at the notebook, full of clumsy, love-filled names. Then I looked at Declan, holding the thermos, barely breathing, so tense.

I wiped my tears and couldn’t help it—I laughed. Softly.