He had been called in for a high-risk delivery. And when he arrived, the patient was none other than his ex-girlfriend.
Viana, 35, had been hiding two things for months: her pregnancy and her fear. She did so with fierce discipline, as if silence could build a wall strong enough to keep away anyone who might hurt her—especially Ricardo.
In the steamy mirror of her cabin’s bathroom, she barely recognized herself: a thinner face, deeper-set eyes, and a belly that swelled and shifted with insistent little kicks. Jack rested both hands on her stomach, feeling the baby move as if staking its claim in the world.
“You’re going to be born soon, my love,” she whispered, swallowing the lump in her throat. “And you’ll know only your mother’s love. That will be enough.”
But doubt buzzed in her mind like a relentless fly: Would it really be enough?
Jack had built her company from scratch. No inheritances, no influential connections, no godfathers. She had won contracts, survived bankruptcies, and faced “no’s” that would have crushed anyone else. Yet nothing could prepare her for a high-risk pregnancy carried in secret, far from big hospitals, far from prying eyes.
Her relationship with Ricardo had ended in the worst way: in a polished living room, overshadowed by his mother, Eleonora—a woman whose thin smile concealed poisonous words.
“Women like you always appear, dear,” Eleonora had said, with a casual cruelty. “You won’t be the first or the last to try to take advantage of my son.”
Take advantage. The words burned more than rejection itself. Jack didn’t need anyone’s money. But Ricardo… he didn’t defend her. He didn’t speak, didn’t stop his mother. He stayed silent, as if love were something negotiated with obedience.
“If that’s how you see me, Ricardo… then you don’t need me in your life,” Jack said that night, her voice steady while her heart shattered. He didn’t follow her.
Two weeks later, the pregnancy test confirmed it.
Jack locked herself in the cabin she had bought as a refuge, which soon became a prison. Her check-ups were discreet, performed by Dr. Salazar, a physician from a neighboring town who repeated the same grim warnings: “Placenta previa. High blood pressure. You can’t be far from an operating room, Jack. Any complication… is a matter of minutes.”
Yet she chose solitude over humiliation, imagining headlines screaming: “Pregnant businesswoman abandoned by Dr. Castañeda.” Imagining whispers: “See? She was a gold digger after all.” And Eleonora’s voice, sharp as a knife, echoing in her ears.
Her assistant, Clara, was the only one who knew the truth. “Ma’am, you have to rest,” she insisted daily, a mix of concern and affection in her eyes. “And how can I rest if every kick reminds me of everything I lost?” Jack replied, trying not to sound harsh. She had even named the baby—Arturo—a name meant to imbue strength from his very first breath.
Meanwhile, Ricardo hid himself in his office at the family mansion, sipping whiskey that tasted like nothing. Months had passed since Jack vanished, yet the emptiness remained, suffocating.
“Why don’t you go look for her?” his brother Marcelo asked one afternoon. “You love her, Ricardo. It’s obvious.”
Ricardo let out a bitter laugh. “My mom was right… maybe she just wanted into the family.” The words sounded false even to him. Jack had never sought his name, his house, or his contacts. She had always shone on her own. And he knew it.
The question that haunted him gnawed again: Why didn’t I defend her? The answer was shameful: fear. Fear of Eleonora. Fear of breaking the mold of the “perfect son.” Fear of admitting his mother was wrong and his heart was not. He tried to find her later, but Jack had disappeared entirely: her company in capable hands, her phone off, her apartment empty. She had erased him from her life with surgical precision.
Better this way, he told himself. She deserved someone better. Yet at night, he dreamt of Jack’s laughter and woke to the hollow ache of what he had lost—something money could never buy.
Then came the early morning when everything erupted. The air was heavy, stifling. Jack walked the cabin hallway, one hand on her back, the other on her belly. The false contractions of previous weeks had been warnings; tonight’s pain was different—sharp, cruel, as if something inside her were tearing.
“Clara…” she gasped, but the agony doubled her over. She felt warmth running down her legs. Blood. So much blood.
“No… no… Arturo, no…” she stammered, trembling.
Clara appeared, phone in hand, pale as the moment. “My God! I’m calling an ambulance!”
Jack tried to breathe, clinging to the wall, but the world began to tilt, gray and distant.
“Hold on, my son…”