Never Again Yours (Isadora and Magnus)

Hospital.

The hurried slap of footsteps echoed through the hushed corridors, slicing through the oppressive stillness.

Nanette and Finley looked up at the sound, and there, finally, was Victor-the man they'd been searching for all this time.

Victor looked frantic. Veins stood out at his temples, his dress shirt and slacks rumpled and sweat-stained, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. "Where's Isadora?" he demanded, voice raw. "Where is she?"

Nanette sprang to her feet the moment she saw him, her emotions boiling over. "Victor, what took you so long? If anything happens to Isadora, I swear, you'll answer to me first!"

Finley gently held Nanette back. "Enough. Don't," he said quietly.

He turned to Victor. "Isadora's still in the delivery room. She hasn't come out yet."

Victor's gaze shot to the closed door down the hall, its red warning light glaring like an accusation.

Every muscle in his body tensed. He forced out the words, his voice tight. "I'm going in. She shouldn't be alone."

After a few quick words with the doctor, Finley nodded.

Victor wasted no time he pulled on a sterile gown, scrubbed his hands, and strode inside.

The delivery room was thick with tension, the air heavy with anxiety.

sharp, agonized cry cut through

the rails with white-knuckled hands. Sweat beaded on her brow, soaking

gently, "Mrs. Fitzgerald, just a little

ached with helplessness and guilt, and he

and desperation threatened to swallow him whole. He clung to her hand as if it

he choked out her name. "Isadora! Isadora, I'm here. I'm with

grip grounding her as she forced her eyes open.

vision blurred

tear in two, the pain sharp and overwhelming. His voice cracked.

voice broke in, urgent. "Mrs. Fitzgerald, almost

face was paper white, her breath ragged,

And then-

piercing, newborn wail filled the room, clear and bright, like the first light of dawn

loudly, "Congratulations, Mr. Fitzgerald.

*

private hospital suite was hushed, as peaceful as a world

lashes long and dark like the sweep of a paintbrush, her features delicate and serene, her pale

sat at her side, silent, her

presse to his check as if

letter she had written her