The mobster and the writer

ANYA POV:

When I was lying in the operating room with postpartum hemorrhage and in urgent need of a family consent form during emergency situations, the thirteen phone calls I made to my husband with my last strength were not worth one tenth of the hockey stick in his hand.

The operating room was in chaos. The monitor screamed and the nurses ran around.

After a day and a night of childbirth, my body was exhausted. Every pulse took away warm, sticky blood and slipped away from me quietly. I knew I was going to die. I could feel it.

Two years of marriage, and I should have known. I was just a prop he married to satisfy his family.

But for the sake of my unborn child, I continued to make one last effort.

This was the thirteenth time I had called him.

Waiting in agony, I heard the call connect.

But it wasn't his voice. It was his assistant's, crisp and professional. "Mr. Knight is in a critical strategy meeting before tonight's game, Mrs. Knight."

My voice was so weak I could barely hear it. "Please, let me say something to him, just once...... Maybe after today, he won't have to answer my calls anymore."

A moment of silence. Then, I heard Keenan's voice, laced with irritation. The background noise was unmistakable-the sharp tap of hockey sticks on a locker room floor.

"Anya, what trick are you playing now? Didn't I tell you every pre-game meeting is crucial?"

My eyes were blurred with tears. "Keenan, I know you always wanted me to sign that divorce agreement. Now I agree to your request. As long as you come to the hospital—"

He cut me off, his tone brutal. "Giving birth is a woman's job. You have doctors and nurses for that. Don't bother me with this stuff. You can't afford to be responsible for messing with the team's focus."

Just as I was about to speak again and beg for help, another voice. Sweet, familiar, and dripping with poison. "Keenan, the competition is about to start. Don't let irrelevant people upset you. Come try the energy drink I made for you."

The daughter of my adoptive family, Kinley Hayes.

Keenan's voice instantly softened. "Okay, babe."

The line went dead.

I let the phone slip from my numb fingers. Tears mixed with the sweat on my face.

I gave up the struggle, and numbly closed my eyes.

But nurse Miller suddenly rushed in. "Dr. Sinclair! The mother's family has just signed the consent form. We're ready for the operation!"

When I heard these words, my eyes, which I had just closed, slowly opened again.

My adoptive parents?

No, they would rather have me die than let this happen. I couldn't help but wonder whether maybe the family of one of their patients signed the wrong form.

But I no longer had the time to care about these things. The darkness had blinded my eyes.