At 2:13 in the morning, a pregnant woman called 911 and whispered that her husband was going to kill her.

By two-forty-five in the morning, the rain outside had turned into a torrential downpour, the sound of heavy water hammering against the foundation walls of the subterranean basement.

Inside the room, the atmosphere had reached a fever pitch.

Wren was now fully dilated. Her contractions were coming every ninety seconds, powerful, uncontrollable waves that pushed her body to the absolute limit of human endurance.

"I can't... I can't do this!" Wren screamed into the plastic oxygen mask, her fingers tearing at the thin bed sheets. "It hurts too much! Rowan, please!"

"Yes, you can!" Rowan shouted back, her voice filled with absolute authority and tender love. "Look at me, Elena! Look at my eyes!"

Wren blinked through her tears, hearing her real name spoken aloud.

"You have survived nineteen years of isolation," Rowan told her, leaning down so their foreheads almost touched. "You survived being hidden from the world. You survived tonight! Your baby is coming right now, and you are going to bring this child into the light! Push!"

Dax held Wren’s right leg, providing a steady, firm anchor, while Kira supported her left side, holding her shoulders forward to maximize her abdominal force.

"Push, Wren! Drive down!" Dax urged, his broad chest heaving as he poured his own strength into supporting her. "Four, three, two, one... good! Take a breath!"

Wren threw her head back, letting out a primal, echoing cry that reverberated off the cold concrete walls.

"I see the head!" Kira called out, her eyes shining with sudden, intense emotion. "Dark hair! Rowan, the head is crowning!"

"Keep going, darling!" Rowan instructed, her gloved hands positioned carefully to support the infant’s perineum and prevent severe tearing. "Don't stop now! One more big push!"

With a final, desperate burst of energy, Wren braced her feet against Dax’s chest and bore down with everything she had left in her soul.

At two-fifty-two AM, the baby slid smoothly into Rowan Hale’s waiting hands.

It was a baby girl—tiny, perfect, her skin covered in white vernix and light dustings of dark hair.

For three terrifying seconds, the infant lay motionless in Rowan’s hands, silent and grey.

"Clear the airway!" Dax blurted out, reaching for the bulb syringe.

Rowan immediately suctioned the baby’s mouth and nose, then took a warm flannel towel and rubbed the infant’s back with rapid, firm strokes. "Come on, sweet girl. Breathe for me. Show this world you're here."

The baby gasped. Her tiny chest expanded, her skin instantly flushing from pale grey to a vibrant, beautiful pink.

Then came the sound.

A loud, piercing, healthy cry rang out through the bleak concrete basement—a glorious, defiance-filled roar of new life that shattered the dark silence of Larkspur Ridge.

Tears spilled instantly from Wren’s eyes as Rowan laid the crying baby directly onto her mother’s bare chest, wrapping them both in warm, clean blankets.

"She’s here, Wren," Rowan whispered, wiping a tear from her own cheek. "She’s healthy. She’s perfect."

Wren cradled her newborn daughter against her neck, weeping tears of pure, overwhelming joy. "My baby... my little girl..."

The loud, metallic clatter of the outer door latch being thrown back shattered the emotional moment.