Chapter 10 - Glass and Wire
Julian approached the incubator as if walking on sacred ground. The sound of the ventilator—a rhythmic, gentle click-whoosh—filled the quiet room.
The baby girl lay on a heated pad, a tangle of wires taped to her translucent chest. A tiny nasal cannula delivered oxygen to her delicate face. Her skin was flushed pink, her tiny chest rising and falling with rapid, fragile desperation.
Julian pressed his trembling palm against the cold, clear plastic of the incubator. A tear slipped down his nose, splashing onto the glass.
"Hello, little one," he whispered, his voice cracking into pieces. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry for the world you've been born into."
As if hearing the low frequency of his voice, the infant's tiny hand twitched. Her impossibly delicate fingers opened, reaching blindly upward into the air.
Julian slipped his gloved finger through the circular access port on the side of the pod. Gently, reverently, he brushed the tip of his finger against her palm. Instinctively, the baby's tiny fingers curled around his index finger, gripping it with a strength that defied her miniature size.
A wave of overwhelming, ferocious love crashed over Julian’s heart, washing away all the corporate calculations, the lies, and the legal terror. He didn't care about the DNA. He didn't care about David Vance, or Sofia, or the ten-million-dollar trust. For seven months, he had talked to this child through Emilia's skin. He had felt her kick against his palms in the dead of night. She was his daughter.
"They're going to try to take you away from us," Julian whispered fiercely, tears falling freely onto the incubator casing. "They have the money. They have the judges. But I swear on my life, I will tear this city apart before I let them steal you."
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The door behind him opened silently. Julian turned, expecting security.
Instead, Sofia stood in the doorway, stripped of her party jewelry, wearing an oversized coat, her face pale as a ghost under the harsh night lights.
