My Water Broke During His Ex's Hostage Crisis

The international news channel blared with live footage from the warzone in the Middle East.

I lay on the couch, my round belly rising and falling with each breath. The sweet taste of cantaloupe still lingered on my lips when the screen suddenly cut to a fleeting shot—a female journalist held at gunpoint by armed militants.

The sound of the fruit platter toppling over made my fingers twitch.

Gavin Sullivan shot up from the couch, his knee slamming into the coffee table with a harsh thud.

Instinctively, I pressed a hand to my belly, but Gavin didn't seem to notice the pain. He staggered into the kitchen, his footsteps heavy.

The sharp crack of glass followed, then the sound of water rushing from the tap.

"I have to go on a business trip."

His lips were still red from the scalding heat of the cantaloupe, but his voice was steady, determined.

I felt the contractions hit again, coming in regular intervals.

Gripping the armrest, I slowly pushed myself upright.

"The doctor said it could happen any moment now."

A trickle of amniotic fluid slid down my leg, leaving a wet stain on the floor.

"Do you remember how my mother died?"

Gavin's suitcase wheels rolled over the damp spot as he bent down to tie his shoes. Cold beads of sweat dotted the back of his neck.

"Passport."