Two months later, Ashley found herself once again in the sterile walls of the labor room, her body racked by seven relentless hours of agony.
Tyson never left her side, gripping her hand as if anchoring himself to reality. His voice was a constant, low murmur against the chaos—soft reassurances to fight the fear clawing at them both.
The room buzzed with the heavy tension of childbirth—beeping monitors, rushed medical commands, the primal sound of Ashley's cries ripping through the air.
Then —
the door slammed open.
Tesmee.
The room froze.
Every doctor, every nurse, even Ashley—stilled at the sight of the woman who had no right to be here, but somehow belonged more than anyone else.
Tyson's hand stiffened around Ashley's.
Her eyes widened, breath hitching—not from pain this time, but from the ice curling around her heart.
Tyson rose before he even realized he was moving.
Like something primitive and unchained had snapped loose inside him.
Without a word, he stormed across the room, seized Tesmee's wrist in a punishing grip, and yanked her down the hallway.
He didn't care who saw. Didn't care about the nurses' gasps.
All he saw was her — the nerve, the audacity, the ghost of everything he tried to bury.
He shoved her into a small, empty room, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the walls.
Tesmee stumbled but caught herself, leaning back against the wall, eerily calm.
Their eyes locked — a collision of past sins and barely restrained rage.
She let out a breath, voice low and exhausted.
"I know our differences... but this isn't about us anymore. We share a woman who needs us both right now. I'm sure we can wait—"
Tyson slammed his hand against the wall beside her head, caging her in.
The crack of impact made her flinch—for just a second.
"You don't get to 'share' anything with my wife," Tyson growled, each word laced with venom.
"My wife," he repeated, dragging out the title like a knife across her skin.
Tesmee's lips curled into a cold, mocking smirk.
"Or what, husband?" she taunted, her voice all silk and steel.
The space between them vibrated with tension, heavy and dangerous.
Tyson's gaze dropped—betraying him, betraying both of them—to her lips for a fraction of a second.
It was enough.
Tesmee caught it. She always caught it.
Tyson shoved himself backward with a grunt, fists clenching at his sides, fighting a battle he was already losing.
"Stay away from her," he barked, the words raw, desperate, like a man drowning.
Tesmee laughed softly—low, humorless.
With deliberate grace, she pressed a hand against his chest, pushing him back.
But before she could retreat, he grabbed her waist in a flash of pure instinct and slammed her harder against the wall.
His touch burned. His hold was bruising.
"Don't make this harder than it already is," Tyson hissed, voice cracking under the strain.
Tesmee didn't flinch.
Instead, she tilted her chin higher, her grey eyes glittering with dangerous understanding.
"You made it hard the moment you lied to yourself, Tyson," she whispered, voice barely audible, slicing deeper than any shout ever could.
That broke him.
He ripped his hands off her as if burned.
For a heartbeat, neither moved — frozen in the ruins of everything unsaid between them.
Without another glance, Tesmee turned and walked away, heels clicking sharply, a sound like final nails in a coffin.
Tyson stood trembling, fists still clenched, chest heaving with anger, grief — and something far worse.
A nurse rushed up, breathless.
"Mr. Hale! Mrs. Hale needs you — now!"
Reality crashed back in like a freight train.
He tore his gaze from the empty hallway and sprinted back toward the woman whose love he didn't deserve — but couldn't bear to lose.
Tyson burst into the labor room, guilt slamming into him harder than any enemy ever had.
Ashley lay there, drenched in sweat and agony, her small hands gripping the rails like lifelines, her screams painting the air with raw suffering.
He rushed to her side, taking her hand with desperate tenderness.
"I'm here, baby. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..." he whispered, pressing a shaking kiss to her damp forehead.
Ashley gave the faintest nod, her body focused entirely on the war raging inside her.
For the next ten minutes, Tyson stayed.
Held her hand.
Breathed through every scream.
Whispered promises he wasn't sure he deserved to make.
Until finally — a cry pierced the heavy air.
Sharp. Strong. New.
The doctor beamed.
"It's a boy—a strong and healthy baby boy."
Tears blurred Tyson's vision as they placed the wriggling, perfect miracle in his arms.
The baby was so small, so warm, so utterly theirs.
He cradled his son close, a broken, healing man, whispering promises only a father could make.
Across the room, Ashley watched them through a haze of exhaustion and aching, teary joy.
They had survived the storm.
For now.
Three days later, they returned home to a grand celebration for their baby boy, Tywin Hale.
The house was filled with laughter, music, and champagne.
But beneath the gilded surface...
The fractures in their hearts were only beginning to show. But...