Chapter 8 - The Foundation Restored
The February blizzard hit the New England coast with ferocious intensity, burying the Armand estate in four feet of snow and cutting off the coastal roads for three days.
Inside the master suite, however, time seemed to stand still in a cocoon of warmth and safety.
Abigail was resting in bed, reading a novel, while Rowan sat in the armchair nearby working on his laptop. The storm outside howled against the reinforced glass, but inside, the only sound was the rhythmic tapping of keyboard keys and the crackle of birch logs in the hearth.
Suddenly, Abigail winced, dropping her book onto the coverlet. She pressed both hands against her lower abdomen, her breath catching in her throat.
Rowan was out of his chair in a microsecond. He dropped his laptop to the floor with a loud thud and was kneeling beside the bed before she could even exhale.
“Abby? What is it? Is it the baby?”
“It’s... it’s not a Braxton Hicks contraction,” Abigail gasped, a bead of sweat forming on her forehead as a sharp, rhythmic wave of pressure gripped her lower back. “Rowan... my water just broke.”
Rowan’s face went pale, but his corporate crisis-management instincts kicked in instantly. He grabbed her overnight bag from the closet and pressed the intercom button for the security desk downstairs.
“Lena! Call Dr. Hayes and alert the private snow-clearing service at the county line! Mrs. Armand is going into labor!”
Within minutes, the house was a flurry of controlled, efficient motion. Though the main roads were blocked by snowdrifts, Rowan had already contracted a private helicopter service with emergency medical clearance for the coastal estate—a precaution he had quietly put in place the day he found her locked in the guest wing.
Two hours later, amidst the blinding swirl of white snow outside the chopper windows, Abigail was resting comfortably in the private maternity suite of St. Jude’s Regional Hospital, her hand tightly locked in Rowan’s grip.
The pain was intense, but as the rhythmic pushing gave way to a sharp, sudden cry that pierced the sterile air of the delivery room, the entire world seemed to tilt on its axis.
Dr. Hayes smiled, lifting a squalling, healthy baby boy wrapped in a pale blue blanket and placing him directly onto Abigail’s chest.
“Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Armand,” the doctor beamed. “You have a very healthy, very strong son.”
Abigail laughed through her tears, looking down at the tiny, perfect face pressed against her skin. His hair was a soft fuzz of dark brown, his tiny hands curling into instinctual fists as he let out another healthy cry.
Rowan leaned over her, kissing her forehead, his own eyes shining with unadulterated tears. He gently brushed a strand of hair from her face, looking down at the child with an expression of overwhelming, reverent awe.
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“He has your eyes,” Rowan whispered, his voice cracking with emotion.
“No,” Abigail smiled, her heart swelling until she thought it might burst. “He has your stubbornness.”
