“They’re alive.”
I squeezed my eyes shut.
A sob escaped me.
Alive.
Both of them.
Ethan leaned forward. “Your son is on respiratory support. Your daughter is stronger, but they’re both in the NICU. The neonatal team is cautiously optimistic.”
I turned my face away.
“Thank you.”
The words felt almost unbearable.
Of all the surgeons in Chicago, fate had chosen him.
The man who had once promised to marry me.
The man who had later looked into my eyes and called me a liar.
Ethan’s voice dropped.
“Hannah…”
“Don’t.”
“I need to ask you something.”
I looked back at him.
His expression had changed.
This was no longer merely a doctor speaking to a patient.
This was Ethan.
The man who remembered everything.
“How old are the twins’ father?” he asked carefully.
A bitter laugh escaped me.
“Is that medically relevant?”
“No.”
“Then don’t ask.”
