The delivery room reeked of disinfectant, copper, and sweat—a thick, sour musk that refused to fade. It clung to the back of Eric's throat like a greasy film, turning every swallow into effort.
Pain tore through his lower abdomen, raw and relentless. Each contraction arrived hotter and heavier than the last, a brutal grinding force that sent black specks skating across his vision.
"Aah—!"
The scream ripped out of him, ragged and hoarse. His body arched against the mattress as pressure built low in his pelvis—urgent, bone-deep—as if his frame were trying to split itself open from the inside.
"Push! Come on, push!" The voices snapped at him—nurse, doctor—faces blurred by motion, all business and bright lights.
Fear and rage crashed together in his chest. Straps pinned him to the delivery bed, forcing him to take it all: the pain, the helplessness, the humiliation. The same crushing weight Eleanor had carried for months while he'd brushed it off with a dismissive shrug and a half-listening hum.
He thrashed until the restraints bit into his skin. His hands shook—useless, trembling. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. Sweat soaked his hair into dark, matted clumps. His face had gone paper-white, pupils shrunk to pinpoints, panic stamped into every jagged breath.
Beside him stood Eleanor—wearing Eric's body, playing the devoted husband. She watched him come apart with a flat, steady calm. She noticed the violent tremor in his limbs, the way his knuckles blanched around the bed rail, the frantic dart of his eyes as if he could locate an exit in the air.
Her mind drifted back to the final weeks of her pregnancy: long nights, sharp aches, lungs short of space. Her discomfort treated like background noise—an irritating soundtrack to his "busy" life.
Now the silence belonged to her.
And the noise was all his.
She remembered waking from a nightmare—surgical lights, hurried footsteps, tearing pain—jerking upright with her nightshirt stuck to her back, cold sweat slicking her spine.
"Eric," she'd whispered, turning to him while he scrolled through his phone. "I'm scared. Twins are harder. There can be complications..."
His eyes hadn't even flickered up. His thumb kept moving. "Having a baby takes a second, Eleanor. Millions of women do it. Stop scaring yourself."
"But my belly... it's so heavy. What if I can't—I've read about hemorrhaging, or—" She'd tried to hand him the fear living in her bones, desperate for him to carry even a fraction.
He'd dropped the phone onto the nightstand like the conversation offended him.
"Can you not do this? I'm exhausted from work. I come home and you want to talk about blood and disasters. Childbirth isn't that hard. You grit your teeth and it's over. Women get through it every day."
Now he was the one on the bed, shaking so violently he could barely hold on.
Eleanor's mouth tightened into a thin, cold line. She patted his trembling hand—the same hand that had been so indifferent when it was his—and leaned toward his ear. Her voice was soft, intimate, almost tender.
"Don't be scared, baby. Remember what you told me? Millions of women get through it just fine. Why can't you hold it together?"
Eric's lips pressed into a bloodless line. The tremors intensified.
A nurse caught the exchange and offered a tired, encouraging smile, mistaking Eleanor's tone for comfort. "See? Your husband's right here for you. You can do this."
Eleanor didn't even glance at her. In this room, Eric's suffering didn't matter—only the body on the bed did. What it would cost. What it might leave behind. If the real Eric had been here, he would've found an excuse to be anywhere else. A meeting. A deal. A crisis at the office. Anything.
He would've chosen Sophia's sheets over this room every single time.
The thought turned Eleanor's blood cold.
Anger. Contempt. A quiet, brutal detachment.
She used to make excuses for him—busy, stressed, exhausted. Her "understanding" had only bought her more neglect, and then betrayal sharp enough to split her in two.
Whatever softness she'd once possessed was gone, replaced by something hard and sealed.
"C-section," Eric rasped, face twisted into a mask of agony. "I want a C-section. I can't—it hurts too much. Get it out. Now."
The doctor nodded and looked to Eleanor—the only family member present—voice professional, careful.
"With twins, a vaginal delivery carries a higher risk profile. Given the patient's progress, stamina, and current pain tolerance, a C-section is the safer route. We generally respect the patient's autonomy in this."
The door burst open.
Linda Davis—Eric's mother—swept in, fashionably late.
Not frantic. Not shaken. Perfectly composed, silk dress crisp, makeup flawless. Her cheeks held a healthy glow that had no business surviving in a room that smelled like blood and fear.
Her eyes landed on the bed—on "Eleanor" thrashing and screaming—and her manicured face shifted into theatrical concern.
"Eleanor? Oh, good heavens." Linda rushed to the bedside and seized "Eleanor's" hand. "What happened? How could you let yourself go into labor this early?"
Then she snapped at the doctor, voice sharpening into a blade. "A C-section? No. Absolutely not."
She turned back to "Eleanor," each word heavy with pressure dressed up as love.
"Don't be ridiculous, dear. A C-section ruins your figure. And the scar—it's so unsightly. Besides, babies need the birth canal; otherwise their immunity is compromised. You have to think of the children, Eleanor. You have to think of your recovery. You're going to do this naturally. It's what's best for them—and for you."
Linda's gaze flicked to "Eric," reaching for her son's support, ready to steamroll the room.
Eleanor opened her mouth—then shut it. She didn't need to say a word.
She had lived this scene.
Eric had spent months pushing the "natural birth" agenda—stronger baby, smarter baby—reciting talking points like scripture. Even when doctors warned that twins shifted the risk profile, he'd waved it off with a flick of his wrist. He'd even used Linda as his shield: My mom says vaginal birth is the only way. C-sections are for women who can't handle labor.
Now his conviction didn't just crumble.
It vaporized under the weight of pain.
Eric's eyes went wide. His face turned the color of paper. "Mom—" he choked, voice thin and reedy with panic. "It's me. I'm in so much pain. I can't... I can't do this."
Even now—with agony ripping him open—his mother was still piling demands on him, measuring him against her expectations and finding him wanting.
Another contraction slammed into his pelvis. His body went rigid, back arching off the bed. A scream tore from him, raw and primal.
The nurses and doctor surged forward at once, forming a wall between Linda and the bed.
"Ma'am, you need to step back," a nurse said, voice clipped into authority. "The patient has requested a C-section. That is her decision, and it's final."
"What do you mean, her decision?" Linda shot back, pitch rising. "She's in active labor—she isn't thinking clearly! Doctor, you cannot just cut her open. A C-section ruins a woman's body. She has to—" Linda jabbed a finger toward the swollen mound of Eric's belly. "She can't take that kind of damage. Give her more meds and let her deliver naturally. It's a faster recovery. You can't just... ruin her!"
The doctor stepped forward. "Ma'am, we follow the patient's lead. In this room, the patient's autonomy comes first. Vaginal or surgical—it's her call."
Linda ignored him, leaning over the bed rail, voice thick with manipulation.
"Eleanor! Didn't you promise me? You said you'd do this naturally. This is for the babies—your babies. Tell them. Tell the doctor you've changed your mind."
She pinned him with her glare, as if eye contact alone could bully his soul back into obedience.
The doctor didn't budge. "She's already made her choice. We're prepping the OR."
The nurse moved in, body angling like a shield. "Eleanor, I need you to confirm one more time. Do you want the C-section? If you're sure, we need your signature on this consent form right now."
Eric nodded weakly—barely more than a twitch—but when he spoke, the words came out firm.
"Yes. I'm sure. Please... just do it now."
The nurse thrust the clipboard forward.
Linda finally understood: in this room, her authority meant nothing. Her face hardened into cold resentment. To her, the C-section wasn't a cry for help—it was "Eleanor" finding the nerve to defy her.
Linda turned and seized Eleanor—"Eric"—by the arm.
"If she's hell-bent on being hacked open, she can go in there alone," Linda snapped, indignation trembling in her voice. "You don't need to subject yourself to this. It's... it's filthy. Come on. We're leaving."
She yanked "Eric" toward the door. Her eyes flicked back to the bed with pure, unfiltered disgust, as if the woman lying there had become something subhuman. Something broken beyond repair.
Eleanor tried to pull away, but Linda's grip was iron.
As the door began to swing shut, Eleanor stole one last look.
"Eleanor's" eyes were wide with raw, animal terror. His mouth opened—about to beg, to scream for her to stay—but a fresh contraction cut him off mid-breath.
The door slammed with a heavy, final thud.
The hallway fell into a vacuum-like silence.
Eleanor leaned back against the sterile wall, the taste in her mouth bitter and metallic.
He was finally paying the price for his selfishness. For years of cold indifference.
That was only the down payment.
Hardly even the interest.
Because for Eric Davis, the nightmare was only just beginning.