Chapter 9 Beneath the White Light

Lila POV

The community hospital's obstetrics wing smelled of industrial disinfectant and quiet desperation. I sat in the waiting room, surrounded by other women whose reasons for being here were written in the careful blankness of their expressions. Some clutched partners' hands, others stared at magazines they weren't reading. All of us existed in the peculiar limbo of difficult decisions made in fluorescent-lit corridors.

"Sophia Gray?" The nurse's voice was professionally gentle, the kind of careful kindness reserved for women making impossible choices.

I had used my maiden name for the appointment, paying cash to avoid any connection to the pack's medical network. This decision was mine alone, far from the werewolf politics and pack obligations that had shaped every other aspect of my life.

The consultation room was smaller than Dr. Kim's office, decorated with pastel prints that were probably meant to be soothing but felt hollow instead. Dr. Sarah Martinez was younger than I had expected, her dark hair pulled back severely, her eyes holding the particular compassion that came from guiding women through their most difficult moments.

"I've reviewed your medical history," Dr. Martinez said, settling into her chair with my file. "Given your previous complications from toxin exposure, I want to make sure you understand all the risks involved with this procedure."

I nodded, my hands folded tightly in my lap. I'd spent three days researching every possible complication, every statistic, every medical consideration. Knowledge felt like armor against the emotional chaos threatening to overwhelm my rational decision.

"The scarring from your previous poisoning incident could complicate the procedure," the doctor continued. "There's an increased risk of hemorrhaging, infection, and potential impact on future fertility. Not insurmountable risks, but significant enough that I want you to be fully informed."

Future fertility. As if there would be a future where I'd want to try again, where I'd trust another man enough to build the life I'd dreamed of with Marcus.

"I understand," I said quietly.

Dr. Martinez leaned forward, her expression shifting from clinical to personal. "I also want you to know that you don't have to make this decision today. If you need more time to consider your options—"

"I've considered them." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "This is what needs to happen."

The paperwork was extensive. Consent forms and medical waivers, risk acknowledgments and post-procedure care instructions. Each signature felt like severing another connection to the impossible future I'd carried for eight weeks.

"We'll need to do an ultrasound before the procedure," Dr. Martinez explained. "Standard protocol for dating and positioning. Are you comfortable with that?"

I nodded, though comfortable was hardly the right word. I'd been carrying those grainy black and white images in my wallet for weeks, studying the tiny figure that represented both miracle and catastrophe.

The ultrasound room was dimly lit, the machine humming quietly in the corner like a mechanical heartbeat. The technician—a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and steady hands—prepared the equipment with practiced efficiency.

"This won't take long," she said, applying the cold gel to my abdomen.

But the moment the image appeared on screen, time seemed to slow. Eight weeks of growth had transformed the tiny cluster of cells into something unmistakably human. A head, tiny limbs, the rapid flutter of a heart that shouldn't exist but stubbornly continued beating.

"Everything looks normal for gestational age," the technician said professionally. "Heart rate is strong."

Strong. I stared at the pulsing dot on the screen, this impossible child who'd defied medical certainty to exist at all. This child who carried immunity that could change the werewolf world forever. This child who would never know its father considered it a mistake to be eliminated.

"Could I have a few minutes?" I asked suddenly.

The technician nodded, printing the images and leaving me alone with the frozen picture on the monitor.

I'd expected to feel relief making this decision. Expected the certainty that came with choosing the practical path forward. Instead, I felt hollow, as if each step toward the procedure room was carving away pieces of myself I'd never recover.

Two hours later, I lay on a narrow bed in pre-op, wearing a hospital gown that opened in all the wrong places and made me feel even more vulnerable than the situation already demanded. The IV in my arm felt cold, the pre-medication making my thoughts soft around the edges.

"Just a mild sedative," the anesthesiologist explained, checking my chart. "You'll be awake but relaxed during the procedure. Are you ready?"

Ready. Such a simple word for such a complex moment.

The operating room was blindingly white, every surface gleaming under powerful surgical lights. I found myself fixated on those lights as I was positioned on the table, stirrups adjusted, monitors attached. The brightness was so intense it seemed to burn away everything else—my anger at Marcus, my hurt over his betrayal, my fear about the future.

In that stark white light, only truth remained.

"We're going to begin now," Dr. Martinez said, her voice coming from somewhere beyond the blazing illumination. "You'll feel some pressure, but the medication should keep you comfortable."

But as I felt the first cold touch of medical instruments, a different kind of pressure built in my chest. Not physical discomfort, but emotional resistance so powerful it felt like my soul was rebelling against what was happening.

This child wasn't Marcus's mistake to eliminate. This child was mine—my miracle, my impossible gift, my future that had nothing to do with his betrayal or his choices. This child was the part of myself that had survived wolfsbane poisoning, that had endured years of lies, that had found the strength to plan my escape from a life that was killing me slowly.

"Wait," I whispered.

"Did you say something?" Dr. Martinez asked, pausing.

"Wait." Louder this time, my voice cutting through the clinical efficiency of the room. "I need to stop."

The instruments withdrew immediately. Dr. Martinez's face appeared above me, concerned and professional.

"Are you experiencing pain? We can adjust the medication—"

"No." I struggled to sit up, the sedative making my movements clumsy but my thoughts suddenly crystal clear. "I need to stop. I can't do this."

"It's normal to feel nervous. We can take a few minutes if you need—"

"I'm not nervous." My voice grew stronger with each word. "I'm wrong. This is wrong."

The room seemed to hold its breath as medical professionals processed my change of heart. Dr. Martinez moved closer, her expression shifting from clinical efficiency to human compassion.

"Are you sure? Once you leave here, if you change your mind again, we'll need to restart the entire process."

"I'm sure." I was already pulling off the monitors, ignoring the protocols and procedures that suddenly felt like obstacles to escape. "This child isn't a problem to solve. It's a life to protect."

Thirty minutes later, I sat in my car in the hospital parking lot, still wearing the hospital bracelet they'd forgotten to remove, staring at the ultrasound photo the technician had quietly slipped into my discharge papers.

My phone buzzed with a text from Marcus: Working late again. Don't wait up.

I looked at the message, then at the ultrasound image, and felt something shift fundamentally in my chest. Not the sharp pain of betrayal I'd been carrying for weeks, but something harder and more durable: resolution.

Marcus could work late with Vera. He could plan his future with his backup family. He could continue believing he was choosing between two women when really he was choosing between two versions of himself—the man who honored his commitments and the man who abandoned them when they became inconvenient.

I was done making his choices easier by eliminating my own options.

This child would grow up knowing only the love of a mother brave enough to raise it alone. This child would never wonder if it was wanted, because its existence was the first choice I had made entirely for myself in four years of marriage.

The European visa in my purse suddenly felt different—not an escape from my problems, but the first step toward building something new. Something that belonged entirely to me.

I started the car and drove home, one hand resting protectively on my stomach, my mind already planning the conversation I would never have with Marcus. He'd made his choices. Now I was free to make mine.

The white light of the operating room had burned away my last illusions, leaving only the truth: I was strong enough to do this alone.

I was strong enough to do anything.