The Ex Who Stole My Delivery Room - Chapter 4: Chapter 4
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The moment I spoke those words, the attorney gave a knowing nod. "I'll draft the paperwork immediately," he said, adjusting his glasses. "But Darcy, are you absolutely certain? Divorce proceedings can get ugly—especially with someone like Harris."
I squared my shoulders, my voice steady. "I've never been more sure of anything. A man who abandons his pregnant wife for his ex doesn't deserve a second chance."
He gathered his briefcase but paused at the door. "I'll contact you within 24 hours. And Darcy?" His expression turned grave. "Brace yourself. Harris Salvador doesn't surrender what he considers his without a war."
As the door clicked shut, warmth spread through my chest. Despite three years of radio silence after choosing Harris over my family, one call had brought Liam running. Whatever battles lay ahead, I'd face them—so long as they led me away from Harris and toward freedom.
The nursery nurse appeared just then, gently placing my newborn in my arms. "Skin-to-skin time, mama," she murmured before slipping out.
My son's tiny fingers curled around mine as our eyes met—his wide and wondering, mine brimming with tears. "Well hello there, little love," I whispered, tracing his perfect nose. The bittersweet realization hit: Harris would never know this heart-bursting joy of holding his child for the first time, of counting each miniature eyelash.
And that was his loss.
Rocking my baby, I exhaled years of tension. The road would be rough, but we'd walk it together—my son and I. As for Harris? Let him drown in his regrets and that gold-digging Cindy's drama. Our future was waiting.
Three hours later, Liam returned waving a manila envelope. "Docs are ready, but we need to move—the pediatrician wants Baby Boy transferred to Children's for specialized care." My signature barely dried before we were racing toward the NICU transport.
Ten endless days passed in a blur of beeping monitors and Liam's terrible coffee. As we finally packed the diaper bag for discharge, my feet suddenly rooted to the linoleum.
"Earth to Darcy?" Liam turned, car keys jingling.
The reality sucker-punched me. "Where exactly am I supposed to go?" Three years ago, I'd burned bridges with my family for Harris. Now I was a jobless single mom with a medically fragile infant.
Liam barked a laugh, crushing me in a bear hug. "You're coming home, genius. Mom's been baking your favorite snickerdoodles since I texted her your flight details." He mock-glared at my stunned expression. "Did you actually think we'd let you Airbnb with a newborn?"
At 30,000 feet, I finally checked my phone after settling the baby. The screen exploded with TMZ alerts:
"EXCLUSIVE: Tech Titan Harris Salvador Welcomes Baby Girl!"
"Who's the Mystery Woman Beside Our Favorite Billionaire Daddy?"
"Harris Beams Holding Newborn—Is That a Wedding Band We Spot?"
Every tabloid featured the same damning photo: Harris cradling Cindy's daughter like a prized trophy, one arm possessively around Cindy's waist as they exited the hospital—the very hour my son had been fighting for breath in the NICU.
A sardonic smile twisted my lips as I typed under the most viral post: "Adorable family portrait! Pity the 'wife' is his mistress and the 'daughter' belongs to her ex-husband. #DoTheMath"
Notifications instantly detonated like fireworks. I silenced my phone with satisfaction, blocking Harris's number before the plane even touched down. Let the internet do its worst—I had a son to raise and a life to rebuild.
I squared my shoulders, my voice steady. "I've never been more sure of anything. A man who abandons his pregnant wife for his ex doesn't deserve a second chance."
He gathered his briefcase but paused at the door. "I'll contact you within 24 hours. And Darcy?" His expression turned grave. "Brace yourself. Harris Salvador doesn't surrender what he considers his without a war."
As the door clicked shut, warmth spread through my chest. Despite three years of radio silence after choosing Harris over my family, one call had brought Liam running. Whatever battles lay ahead, I'd face them—so long as they led me away from Harris and toward freedom.
The nursery nurse appeared just then, gently placing my newborn in my arms. "Skin-to-skin time, mama," she murmured before slipping out.
My son's tiny fingers curled around mine as our eyes met—his wide and wondering, mine brimming with tears. "Well hello there, little love," I whispered, tracing his perfect nose. The bittersweet realization hit: Harris would never know this heart-bursting joy of holding his child for the first time, of counting each miniature eyelash.
And that was his loss.
Rocking my baby, I exhaled years of tension. The road would be rough, but we'd walk it together—my son and I. As for Harris? Let him drown in his regrets and that gold-digging Cindy's drama. Our future was waiting.
Three hours later, Liam returned waving a manila envelope. "Docs are ready, but we need to move—the pediatrician wants Baby Boy transferred to Children's for specialized care." My signature barely dried before we were racing toward the NICU transport.
Ten endless days passed in a blur of beeping monitors and Liam's terrible coffee. As we finally packed the diaper bag for discharge, my feet suddenly rooted to the linoleum.
"Earth to Darcy?" Liam turned, car keys jingling.
The reality sucker-punched me. "Where exactly am I supposed to go?" Three years ago, I'd burned bridges with my family for Harris. Now I was a jobless single mom with a medically fragile infant.
Liam barked a laugh, crushing me in a bear hug. "You're coming home, genius. Mom's been baking your favorite snickerdoodles since I texted her your flight details." He mock-glared at my stunned expression. "Did you actually think we'd let you Airbnb with a newborn?"
At 30,000 feet, I finally checked my phone after settling the baby. The screen exploded with TMZ alerts:
"EXCLUSIVE: Tech Titan Harris Salvador Welcomes Baby Girl!"
"Who's the Mystery Woman Beside Our Favorite Billionaire Daddy?"
"Harris Beams Holding Newborn—Is That a Wedding Band We Spot?"
Every tabloid featured the same damning photo: Harris cradling Cindy's daughter like a prized trophy, one arm possessively around Cindy's waist as they exited the hospital—the very hour my son had been fighting for breath in the NICU.
A sardonic smile twisted my lips as I typed under the most viral post: "Adorable family portrait! Pity the 'wife' is his mistress and the 'daughter' belongs to her ex-husband. #DoTheMath"
Notifications instantly detonated like fireworks. I silenced my phone with satisfaction, blocking Harris's number before the plane even touched down. Let the internet do its worst—I had a son to raise and a life to rebuild.
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