The days blurred into a haze of heartache in the empty mansion. Stiles ignored Derek’s calls and messages—her phone buzzing relentlessly on the nightstand, his voice pleading in voicemails she couldn’t bear to listen to. “Baby, pick up… what’s wrong? I love you…” But she stayed curled in her room, crying endlessly, missing her babies’ chubby giggles and Derek’s strong arms. The loneliness clawed at her, the vast halls echoing her sobs. She ate only for the child inside her—not because she was hungry, but because the tiny life deserved better than her despair. “I’m sorry, little one… mama’s trying,” she’d whisper, hand on her belly, tears soaking the pillows.

Two days passed in isolation, her world shrinking to grief. On the third night, very late, hard knocks rattled her bedroom door—angry, insistent thuds that jolted her from fitful sleep. Stiles stirred, heart pounding, wiping her teary eyes as she padded to the door in her tiny nightie. She opened it a crack, and there stood Derek—his handsome face broken, eyes red-rimmed with sadness and fury, still in his rumpled business suit from the trip.