could call, a news alert appeared. It credited Victor as the hotel’s sole visionary and described the suspended ballroom as his most daring invention.
Lena stared at the photograph.
The design she had created with her father had become Victor’s engagement backdrop.
A tight band of pain spread across her abdomen.
She bent forward and breathed through it.
“Not now,” she whispered. “Please.”
The pain eased, then returned with enough force to make her knees weaken.
Warmth spread beneath her coat.
The blue notebook slipped from her fingers and landed open on the wet pavement.
People hurried around her. Several looked back, but the rain and traffic kept everyone moving.
Lena reached for the streetlight and missed.
A man dropped a black umbrella and caught her beneath the arms before she struck the ground.
“Lena. Look at me.”
She knew the voice.
Rafael Mercer knelt beside her in the rain.
He looked older than when she had last seen him. There was gray at his temples and a thin scar near his jaw. His expression, however, held the same steady concentration she remembered from construction sites during emergencies.
“How far along are you?”
“Thirty-one weeks. Twins.”
He called an ambulance, gave the address, and placed his folded coat beneath her head.
“Stay with me.”
“The hotel,” she gasped.
“We’ll deal with it.”
“Tomorrow night. They’re opening the ballroom tomorrow.”
Rafael looked toward the digital display. Then he saw the notebook lying in the rain.
He retrieved it and studied the exposed page.
“Are these the final shaft depths?”
Lena nodded.
His face changed.
Rafael lifted his phone and gave the emergency operator a second address.
“Notify the fire department and the city building commissioner,” he said. “The Skyline Crown needs to be cleared immediately.”
The ambulance arrived before Lena could ask what he knew.
During the ride, she remembered fragments: Rafael’s hand gripping the rail beside her stretcher, the paramedic asking whether she had experienced bleeding, and the sound of two rapid heartbeats filling the vehicle.
At Northwestern Memorial Hospital, nurses moved beneath cold white lights. Monitors were attached to Lena’s stomach. An IV was started. Questions came too quickly for her to answer without closing her eyes.
Dr. Priya Shah arrived after the ultrasound.
“Both babies have strong heartbeats,” she said. “You’re experiencing preterm contractions and a small amount of bleeding. Your water has not fully broken. We’re giving medication to slow the contractions and steroids to support the babies’ lungs in case delivery becomes necessary.”
Lena released a breath that felt trapped beneath her ribs.
“They’re alive?”
“They are. We need to monitor all three of you closely tonight.”
When the doctor left, Rafael appeared at the doorway holding the blue notebook inside a clear belongings bag.
“It’s safe,” he said.
Lena looked past him. “Did they evacuate the hotel?”
“Not yet. Victor’s team showed the emergency dispatcher a valid occupancy certificate.”
“There cannot be a valid certificate for the ballroom.”
Rafael pulled a folded report from his briefcase. “Someone submitted a revised approval three days ago. It carries your engineering stamp and signature.”
Lena felt her pulse climb on the monitor.
“I never signed it.”
“I know.”
“How can you know?”
Rafael placed the report beside her bed.
A subcontractor had sent him the foundation records two
