The clock on the wall of the VIP waiting room ticked with agonizing slowness. It had been four hours since the gurneys wheeled the twin brothers into the operating theater.
Victoria Vance paced the length of the room, her heels clicking a nervous rhythm on the linoleum. Sitting in the corner, Isabella Moretti held a hand over her pregnant belly, her eyes closed in silent prayer.
“They are stubborn men,” Isabella whispered, breaking the silence. “Both of them. They think they can negotiate with death.”
Victoria stopped pacing and sat beside her. “That’s the Croft curse. They build empires because they’re terrified of things they can’t control.” She looked at Isabella, recognizing the exhaustion in the younger woman’s face–the same exhaustion Victoria had felt during the “Storm Birth”.
“You’re the only one who understands,” Isabella said, opening her eyes. “Everyone else sees the CEO or the Exile. We see the broken boys inside the suits.”
Victoria took Isabella’s hand. “We aren’t just spectators anymore, Isabella. We are the ones who pick up the pieces when they shatter. We are the Croft women now”.