No Room for Your Regrets

Olivia's POV

I stood by the kitchen counter, one hand pressed firmly against the heavy curve of my thirty-five-week belly.

My phone was propped against the coffee maker, streaming the live broadcast of Charlotte’s society wedding. My doctor had put me on strict bed rest two weeks ago, so I had stayed home while Gabriel went alone. He was supposed to sit in the third row, show his face for an hour, and return.

Instead, the screen showed my husband standing at the back of the cathedral in a tailored black tuxedo.

He was not in a pew. He was standing beside Charlotte, his arm linked tightly through hers.

"In an unexpected turn of events," the livestream commentator whispered excitedly, "after the groom failed to appear this morning, Charlotte’s closest childhood friend, Gabriel, has stepped in to escort her down the aisle."

I reached forward to pinch and zoom the screen, but my fingers froze.

A sudden gush of hot liquid ran down the insides of my thighs.

For half a second, I thought my water had broken early. Then I looked down.

Bright crimson blood was pooling over the white kitchen tiles, soaking into the fabric of my slippers.

A violent, tearing pain ripped through my lower abdomen, dropping me to my knees. My gray hospital bag, packed just two days earlier, sat untouched by the front door.

Shaking uncontrollably, I tapped Gabriel’s contact and hit call.

He answered on the fourth ring. Organ music swelled through the receiver, loud and echoing.

"Gabriel, I'm bleeding," I gasped, pressing my forehead against the edge of the counter. "Something is wrong with the baby."

"Olivia?" His voice was low, strained with irritation. "I'm about to walk Charlotte down the aisle. Can this wait?"

"I'm thirty-five weeks pregnant. I need you to take me to the hospital."

"Take a cab or rest on the sofa," he snapped, his tone muffled as if he had his hand cupped over the microphone. "Charlotte’s groom left her stranded forty minutes ago. If I leave right now, she’s going to be the laughingstock of all of New York society."

"I am on the floor, Gabriel! There is blood everywhere!"

"Stop exaggerating because you’re upset about me being here," he said. "Charlotte has been humiliated in front of two hundred guests. She needs me."

"And what about our daughter?"

"Please, Olivia. Don't make me choose today."

On the phone screen, the camera zoomed into Charlotte’s face as she dabbed at her mascara.

That was when I saw the veil.

It was soft ivory tulle with a border of pale blue silk flowers embroidered by hand.

My stomach plummeted harder than the contractions could ever manage. That was my mother’s veil. She had spent three months stitching those delicate blue blossoms while dying of cancer so I could wear it at my wedding five years ago.

Gabriel had cried when he lifted that exact fabric over my head at our altar. He had held me against his chest and promised I would never have to face the worst day of my life alone.

Now, Charlotte wore it. And worse, the scalloped hem had been crudely cut in half with scissors, chopping away my mother’s thread work to match the neckline of Charlotte’s gown.

"My mother's veil..." My voice cracked into a jagged sob. "You gave her my mother’s veil? You let her cut it?"

"She needed something old and borrowed, Olivia! It’s just fabric. We will talk about this when I get home. I have to go."

"Gabriel, no—"

"I’ll come by after the ceremony," he said flatly.

The line went dead.

On the screen, Gabriel handed his phone to the best man standing near the entrance. He adjusted his cufflinks, smiled gently down at Charlotte, and took her trembling hand. As the heavy brass doors opened and the audience stood to applaud, they began their walk toward the floral arch.

I hit redial.

"The cellular customer you are trying to reach has turned off their phone."

A wave of pain seized my torso, so sharp it stole the oxygen straight from my lungs. I collapsed flat against the bloodied tile, knocking over a package of newborn socks resting on the low shelf.

My fingers slipped on the screen as I dialed 911.

"Help me," I managed to whisper when the dispatcher answered. "Thirty-five weeks... massive hemorrhage. Please."

By the time the paramedics rushed through the unlocked front door, I could no longer lift my head. They lifted me onto a gurney, their voices barking urgent medical jargon over my head as my gray hospital bag was thrown onto the stretcher beside my feet.

The ambulance ride was a blur of blaring sirens and freezing hands.

When the doors flew open at the emergency bay, the glare of fluorescent lights blinded me.

"Fetal heart rate is dipping into the sixties," an OB-GYN resident shouted, running alongside the gurney as they shoved through double doors. "Severe placental abruption! We have active internal bleeding!"

The cold metal rails of the hospital bed rattled violently. The fetal monitor emitted a flat, frantic sequence of beeps that sounded like an alarm clock running out of time.

A nurse grabbed my hand, trying to pry my fingers off my phone. "Sweetheart, you have to let go of the device."

I looked at the screen. Seventeen outgoing calls to Gabriel. Every single one sent directly to voicemail.

"We need to deliver your baby now," the surgeon said, pulling on sterile gloves.

Tears spilled over my temples, burning the cuts on my face from where I had fallen. "Is she going to survive?"

"We're doing everything we can. I need you to stay with us, Olivia."

"Please save my daughter," I begged into the oxygen mask being strapped to my face. "Please, just save her..."

The cold rush of anesthesia flooded my IV.

The last sound I heard before the world dissolved into black was the frantic beeping of the fetal monitor.

***

When I opened my eyes, the harsh white light had been replaced by the dim glow of an evening recovery room.

My wrist felt heavy. A plastic identification band was wrapped tightly around it, right next to the thick needle delivering donor blood into my vein.

Beside my bed stood an empty clear plastic bassinet.

A female doctor stepped into the room, her expression solemn. She explained that I had suffered a major placental abruption and lost nearly two liters of blood during the emergency surgery.

"Your daughter is alive," she said gently. "She is currently in the neonatal intensive care unit. She was born severely hypoxic and is on a ventilator. The next forty-eight hours will be critical."

Before I could ask if I could see her, the door swung open.

Gabriel walked in.

He was still wearing his tailored black tuxedo. Pinned to his lapel was a white rose boutonniere dusted with yellow pollen. As he stepped near the foot of my bed, the heavy scent of tuberose and expensive French jasmine rolled off his lapels.

It was Charlotte’s signature perfume.

He didn't rush to my side. He didn't look at the blood transfusion bag hanging over my head.

Instead, he stopped at the foot of the bed, his brow furrowed in frustration.

"Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was?" he demanded in a sharp whisper. "The hospital called my phone six times during the reception. The vibration went off right during the father-daughter dance."

I stared at him, my voice completely hollow. "I was bleeding."

"You knew today was Charlotte's wedding. Why did you have to give birth today?"

The room seemed to turn entirely to ice.

"Our daughter was born at thirty-five weeks," I said, every word costing me effort. "She is in an incubator right now fighting to breathe."

Gabriel didn't look at the empty crib. He shifted his weight, crossing his arms.

"You could have at least called an ambulance instead of ruining her entire day."

"I did call an ambulance," I whispered. "Because you didn't come."

I picked up my phone from the bedside table and turned the screen toward him.

The log displayed seventeen unanswered outgoing calls, all timestamped between the moment my placenta tore and the moment I was cut open.

Before he could answer, a notification banner lit up the top of my screen.

It was an Instagram alert from Charlotte’s account, posted five minutes ago.

The photo showed Gabriel in his tuxedo, standing beneath the reception fairy lights, his eyes closed as he pressed a tender kiss to Charlotte’s forehead while she smiled through tears.

The caption read:

*The only man who has never abandoned me.*