Upstairs, Victoria lay in the semi-darkness. She could hear the shouting from below. She heard the crash of the glass. She heard Isabella’s cry of pain echo up the grand staircase.
Her heart rate monitor began to beep faster. *Beep-beep-beep.*
The stress of the situation–the “Fortress” becoming a cage, the knowledge that help was impossible–flooded her system with cortisol. Her blood pressure, already dangerously high from the pre-eclampsia, spiked.
She tried to take a deep breath to calm herself, but her body had other plans.
A sudden, crushing pressure seized her lower back. It wrapped around her abdomen like a tightening vice, stealing her breath. It wasn’t the dull ache of the pre-eclampsia headache. It was primal. It was imminent.
She gripped the silk sheets, letting out a low moan that tore through her throat.
William burst into the room, his face flushed from the cold. “Victoria, Isabella is in–“
He stopped. He saw Victoria clutching her stomach, her back arched off the mattress, sweat beading on her forehead.
“No,” William breathed, looking from the hallway where Isabella was screaming to the bed where his wife was writhing. “Not both of them. Not now.”
Victoria looked at him, her eyes wide with fear. “William,” she gasped. “The baby… she’s coming.”
Outside, the storm howled, drowning out the world. Inside, the house was under siege by life itself.