Make Him Pay: My Ultimate Revenge

"Push the gurney! Move!"

The deafening wail of the ambulance siren sliced through the thunderstorm over Manhattan. The heavy rear doors of the vehicle were kicked open. Rain lashed down in thick, freezing sheets.

The paramedics yanked the stretcher out. The rubber wheels hit the flooded asphalt, spraying dirty water across the emergency room entrance.

Corrine Ratcliff curled into a tight ball on the narrow mattress. Her hands gripped her massive, swollen belly. The thin white hospital gown was already soaked through. Blood mixed with amniotic fluid, dripping steadily onto the metal frame of the gurney.

Her teeth clamped down on her lower lip. The metallic taste of her own blood filled her mouth.

Nurse Sharon Mills sprinted out of the sliding glass doors. She grabbed the front of the gurney.

"I've got her! Clear the hallway!" Sharon screamed.

The wheels screeched against the polished linoleum floor of the ER lobby. Corrine stared up. The harsh, blinding white fluorescent lights on the ceiling flashed past her eyes in a rapid, dizzying blur. Her stomach cramped so hard she thought her spine would snap in half.

Dr. Alistair Finch, the hospital's top obstetrician, power-walked toward them. His face was grim. He snatched the chart from the paramedic.

Another contraction hit. It felt like a serrated knife dragging through Corrine's pelvis.

A raw, guttural scream tore from her throat. Her fingers clamped around the cold metal side-rails of the gurney. She squeezed until her knuckles turned a stark, bone-white.

Dr. Finch snapped on a pair of sterile gloves. He pressed his hands firmly against her lower abdomen. His thick eyebrows instantly pulled together into a hard knot.

"Breech," Dr. Finch barked. "Both of them. The twins are completely misaligned."

Before anyone could speak, the fetal heart monitor attached to Corrine's stomach let out a piercing, high-pitched alarm. The red light flashed frantically.

"Fetal distress!" Sharon yelled, her eyes wide as she stared at the screen. "Baby A's heart rate is plummeting. It's dropping fast!"

"Activate the OB Rapid Response Team! Stat C-section, now!" Sharon shouted down the hall.

Dr. Finch leaned over the gurney. His face was inches from Corrine's.

"Listen to me," Dr. Finch said, his voice cutting through the chaos. "If I don't cut you open right this second, you and both of these babies are going to die. Do you understand?"

Cold sweat drenched Corrine's hair, pasting it to her forehead. The pain was blinding, tearing her body apart from the inside out. She nodded frantically.

Sharon shoved a thick stack of papers onto Corrine's chest.

"Consent forms," Sharon said, her voice shaking. "We need a family member or a legal medical proxy to sign this right now. We can't operate without it."

Family.

The word made Corrine's chest cave in. Her brain went completely blank. Her trembling hand instinctively reached for the pillow next to her head. Her fingers brushed against her phone. It was slick with her own sweat.

The screen lit up. The wallpaper was a