Husband Returns Home To Find His Pregnant Wife Alive Inside A Coffin

Julian’s scream was high, wet, and thoroughly unhuman.

The syringe slipped from his fingers, shattering on the linoleum in a puddle of clear, deadly liquid. He stumbled back, but the chisel had pinned his foot like a butterfly on a board. He tore himself loose with a sickening rip of leather and flesh, collapsing against the dialysis machine.

"You bastard!" he shrieked, clutching his mangled foot, his aristocratic composure dissolving into frantic, animal terror.

I scrambled to my feet, spitting blood onto the white tiles. The room was spinning, but the adrenaline burned through the concussion like kerosene. I grabbed him by the lapels of his cashmere coat, hauling him up until his face was inches from mine.

"Where is Claire?" I roared, shaking him until his teeth clattered. "Where is she going?"

Julian laughed—a bloody, breathless sound. "You think Claire matters? She’s already at the docks, Marcus. The Antwerp freighter clears the harbor at midnight. And she isn't alone."

My blood went cold. "What did you do?"

"You think... you think we were only going to kill Elena?" Julian gasped, his eyes wide and feverish with pain. "You think Diane would let a living heir walk around with forty percent of the voting shares? The baby was never supposed to leave the hospital alive, Marcus! If he survived the birth... he was supposed to leave with Claire!"

A cold dread punched through my gut.

The NICU.

The nursery wasn't on this floor. It was on the third floor. And the power had just flickered.

"Code Pink. Code Pink, Third Floor Nursery," the intercom system suddenly crackled to life, the synthetic female voice droning with terrifying calm. "All exits are locked down. Security to Nursery Station B. Code Pink."

Code Pink.

Infant abduction.

I shoved Julian into the wall with enough force to crack the plaster. He slid down, clutching his bloody foot, groaning in agony. I didn't wait. I didn't call the guards. I bolted through the door, my shoes sliding in the pool of blood Julian had left on the floor.

The stairwell was dark, illuminated only by the red glow of emergency exit signs. I didn't wait for the elevator. I hit the concrete stairs three at a time, my hands sliding along the steel rail, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird.

*Not my son. Not him. Not after everything.*

Three floors down. I slammed through the heavy fire doors of the third floor.

The hallway was chaotic. Alarms were blaring a two-tone klaxon. Two nurses were on their knees behind the reception desk, one of them weeping while a doctor applied pressure to a deep laceration across her forehead.

"Where is he?" I screamed, grabbing the desk. "Where is incubator four?"

The nurse pointed a trembling, bloodstained finger toward the emergency service elevator at the end of the hall. "A woman... in a surgical gown. She had a stun gun. She took the boy. She took the portable transport unit!"

The indicator light above the service elevator showed it was descending.