Page 48 of Falling for the Bombshell (Falling for #1)

It was June—the longest day of the year.

The sunlight had clung to the windows longer than usual that evening, like it too was holding on.

The world outside was in full bloom, golden rays stretching across the sky as if promising hope, warmth, and life.

But inside the hospital room, time was folding in on itself.

But it wasn ’ t just for monitoring. It was the beginning of the fight of her life.

Toxemia. That ’ s what they called it. A condition where the body starts attacking itself.

The placenta falters, organs struggle, the body becomes toxic.

Linnie had never felt so sick. Her thoughts were scattered, her stomach was tight.

They injected steroid shots into her hip to help mature the baby ’ s lungs.

They started magnesium sulfate to prevent seizures.

Her skin burned. Her head was spinning. She was so tired she couldn ’ t cry anymore.

Summer stopped by the hospital with Panda Express, Linnie ’ s comfort food.

She smiled when she saw it—but she couldn ’ t eat.

Her stomach rolled. “ I need a shower,” she whispered.

She stood under the hot water for just a moment before the world spun—and she collapsed.

Summer found her unconscious on the bathroom floor.

Code called. Nurses flooded the room. Blaine was pulled from a call with his family and raced down the halls barefoot, panic clawing up his throat.

The decision was made: emergency c-section .

The baby couldn ’ t wait. Neither could Linnie.

There wasn ’ t time for goodbye kisses or reassurances.

Just hands tugging Blaine into a surgical gown, nurses barking instructions, a masked nurse yelling, “ Dad, do you have your phone? You ’ ll want pictures!

” He ran back down the hallway to get it.

Their mothers were in the waiting room, tears already staining their cheeks.

Blaine ’ s hands were shaking. His chest felt like it would crack open.

2:04 AM.

The world had spun on its axis.

Their baby boy came into the world screaming—a fragile, high- pitched cry from a body barely bigger than Blaine ’ s forearm.

Two pounds, ten ounces. His skin was red and wrinkled.

The NICU team descended immediately. Blaine followed, as Linnie had asked, watching his tiny son get wheeled away in an isolette, tubes already in place.

He looked back at Linnie once before leaving the room.

She mouthed: Go.

And he did.

Only to be called back minutes later.

Flatline.

Linnie ’ s heart had stopped.

The machines screamed. The nurses moved quickly, doing compressions, pushing meds.

A blur of action in the cold, sterile operating room.

Her skin was gray. Her lips blue. The magnesium had bought them time, but her body was still overwhelmed.

Every vital organ was screaming for relief.

Blaine stood at the edge of the room, unable to move, as if frozen in time.

The longest day of the year felt like the end of the world.

He whispered her name. Over and over. “ Come back. Please.

Come back to me.