I sank to the floor right there in the entryway, knees hitting the hardwood, sobs ripping out of me in ugly, gasping waves. My hands cradled my belly like I could protect the baby from how badly we were breaking.
Zariah’s footsteps thundered down the stairs.
“Hadley? Oh God,” She dropped beside me, arms around my shoulders. “Breathe. Just breathe.”
“He left,” I choked. “Again. He left.”
“I know, baby. I know.”
“I have to fix this,” I whispered, wiping my face with shaking hands. “Before the concert. If I don’t… if he goes on stage like this…”
Zariah searched my eyes. “You’re thirty-seven weeks. You’re exhausted. You’re in pain.”
“I don’t care.” My voice cracked but stayed firm. “I have to make him see me. Really see me. Before he destroys himself on that stage. Please, Z. Drive me.”
She exhaled slowly. “If we go, and something happens,”
“Then we deal with it. But I can’t sit here and wait for him to overdose or crash or… whatever he’s doing to himself. I can’t.”
She studied me another long second.
Then nodded. “Okay. Get your shoes. I’ll grab your hospital bag, just in case.”
The drive to the venue was forty-five minutes of hell.
Contractions started small, tightening bands across my lower belly every ten minutes or so. I told myself they were Braxton Hicks. Stress. Nothing real.
Zariah kept one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over to squeeze mine every time I winced.
“Talk to me,” she said. “Keep talking.”
“I keep seeing his face,” I whispered. “When he looked at me like I was nothing. Like everything we built was a lie.”
“It wasn’t a lie,” she said firmly. “You fought. You’re still fighting.”
“But what if it’s too late?”
“Then you’ll know you tried everything.” She glanced at me. “And if he can’t meet you halfway… then you protect yourself and that baby. Okay?”
I nodded, but tears kept coming.
Another contraction hit, sharper this time. I gripped the door handle, breathing through it.
“Hadley?”
“I’m okay,” I lied. “Just… keep going.”
We pulled into the artist lot behind the arena. The show was already over, fans spilling out the front, security lights sweeping the back entrance. Zariah parked as close as she could.
I got out slowly, one hand under my belly. The pressure was constant now, low and heavy.
We approached the backstage door. A burly security guy blocked it.
“Name?”
“Hadley Jackson,” I said. “I’m Cal Parker’s wife.”
He looked skeptical. “ID?”
