The aroma of orange zest and toasted almonds drifted through the executive conference room, sharp and distinct against the stale smell of expensive leather and furniture polish.

The rain was coming down in thick, gray sheets over downtown Seattle, blurring the neon signs of the market district. The street smelled of damp asphalt, roasted coffee, and sea air.

My black SUV pulled up to the curb outside a weathered brick building with a faded wooden sign: Mercy Street Bakery & Kitchen.

My heart hammered so violently against my ribs that I could barely draw air into my lungs. My hands were shaking as I reached for my cane. Marcus reached across from the driver’s seat, placing a steadying hand on my arm.

“Take it easy, man,” Marcus said softly. “You’ve had a long day. Your blood pressure—”

“I don't give a damn about my blood pressure, Marcus,” I rasped, pushing the door open. “I’ve missed seven months of her life. Seven months of my children’s lives.”

I stepped out into the rain. The cold drops splashed against my face, but I barely felt them. I leaned on my cane, dragging my recovering left leg as I made my way toward the glass front door of the bakery.

The bell above the door chimed softly as I stepped inside.

The bakery was warm, filled with the rich smells of baking bread, cinnamon, and roasting coffee. A few customers sat at wooden tables, chatting quietly over mugs of tea. Behind the glass display case stood an older woman with silver hair and a floral apron.

She looked up, her expression shifting from a warm customer-service smile to sharp suspicion as she took in my tailored suit, my cane, and the raw, desperate look in my eyes.

“Can I help you, sir?” she asked, stepping closer to the counter, her hands resting near an under-counter phone.

“I’m looking for Elena,” I said, my voice cracking. “Elena Cole.”

The woman’s posture instantly went rigid. Her eyes narrowed into icy slits. “There’s no one here by that name. You need to leave.”

“Please,” I begged, taking a step closer, gripping the counter with my free hand. “My name is Adrian Cole. I’m her husband.”

“Her husband is dead,” the woman snapped, coming around the counter to stand between me and the back hallway door. “Her husband’s ghoul of a mother made that very clear seven months ago when she kicked a pregnant woman out onto the street in the middle of a rainstorm. Now get out before I call the police.”

“I didn't know!” I yelled, tears finally spilling over my cheeks. “I was in a coma for six weeks! My brain was damaged! They lied to me! They told me she left me, and they told her I was dead! I just found out the truth an hour ago!”

The woman stopped. She searched my face, looking at the deep scar running along my left hairline, the tremor in my leg, and the sheer, unadulterated agony in my eyes. The hostility in her posture softened just a fraction.

Before she could speak again, a sharp, gasped cry rang out from the back kitchen, followed by the heavy clatter of a metal mixing bowl hitting the tile floor.

“Martha!” a breathless, strained voice called out from behind the swinging doors. “Martha, please... the contractions... they’re coming every two minutes!”