Winn climbed into the ambulance with Sylvia.
Ivy followed in her car, her body guard driving while she curled into the seat, her pulse thundering in her throat. She kept one hand pressed to her stomach, willing herself not to cry. But it was impossible. What just happened felt like a bad dream.
Her eyes stayed glued to the ambulance in front of them, praying—desperately—that Sylvia would hold on long enough to for the doctors to save her.
All through the ride, Winn's mind was a violent storm—thoughts colliding, crashing, breaking apart only to slam into him again. Elizabeth is alive. The sentence looped in his head. His Elizabeth. His baby. The daughter he had mourned, the child whose empty nursery had haunted him.
