Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 119

Adrian’s POV

I have never felt more useless in my life.

I've faced down dangerous men. Walked into enemy territory alone with nothing but leverage and the certainty that I wouldn't leave without what I came for.

I've stared down the barrel of a gun and felt nothing but cold calculation. I've rebuilt myself from the ashes of my father's empire, constructed a new identity from nothing, survived things that would have broken lesser men.

But watching Sophie writhe in pain, her screams echoing off sterile walls—I'm paralyzed.

The delivery room is controlled chaos. Nurses move with practiced efficiency, calling out numbers and terms I don't understand, adjusting monitors and equipment with hands that never shake.

Machines beep in patterns I can't decode. The overhead lights are too bright, too harsh, turning everything into sharp edges and shadows.

Sophie grips my hand so hard I feel bones grinding together. I don't flinch. Don't pull away. If she needs to break every finger I have, I'll let her.

"You're doing so well," I tell her, the words feeling hollow even as I say them. "Just breathe. I'm right here."

"It hurts." Her voice is ragged, barely recognizable. "Adrian, it hurts so much."

"I know. I know." I brush sweat-soaked hair from her forehead with my free hand. "But you're the strongest person I've ever met. You can do this."

Another contraction tears through her. Her back arches off the bed, a scream ripping from her throat that I'll hear in my nightmares for the rest of my life. The monitors beside her spike and beep frantically.

"Heart rate's dropping," a nurse calls out. "Doctor, we're at ninety-two."

The doctor's calm demeanor shifts.

It's subtle—a tightening around his eyes, a slight tension in his shoulders—but I've spent years reading people for signs of weakness. I know fear when I see it.

"The cord's wrapped around the neck," he says, his voice still steady but urgent now. "We need to move fast."

My blood turns to ice.

"What does that mean?" I demand. "What's happening?"

"It means we need to get this baby out quickly." The doctor doesn't look at me, his focus entirely on Sophie. "Sophie, I need you to push. Hard. Can you do that for me?"

"I can't…" She's crying now, tears mixing with sweat. "I can't, I'm so tired!"

"You can." I cup her face, forcing her to look at me. "Sophie, look at me. You can do this. Our child needs you to do this."

"I'm trying!"

"I know you are. You're doing amazing. Just a little more."

She pushes. The scream that accompanies it is primal, animalistic, a sound I never want to hear again.

The monitors spike again—the baby's heart rate dropping further, numbers flashing that mean nothing to me but clearly mean something to the medical staff exchanging urgent glances.

"Eighty-five," someone calls out. "Doctor—"

"I see it."

Hours have passed since we arrived. Or maybe it's been minutes—time has lost all meaning in this room. Sophie is exhausted, drained of everything that makes her Sophie.

She's pale, sweat-soaked, barely conscious between contractions. Dark circles ring her eyes. Her lips are cracked and dry.

When another contraction hits, she doesn't scream anymore. Just moans—low, animal, her body fighting a battle it might not win.

"Sophie." I squeeze her hand. "Stay with me. Stay awake."

"I’m trying." Her words slur together. "Adrian, if something happens—"

"Nothing is going to happen."

"But if it does…"

"It won't." I don't recognize my own voice—desperate, cracked, nothing like the controlled man I've trained myself to be. "You're going to be fine. The baby's going to be fine. I won't accept any other outcome."

"That's not how this works," she whispers. "You can't control everything."

"Watch me."

The doctor straightens, his expression grim. He exchanges a look with the head nurse—the kind of look that makes my stomach drop.

"We need to consider an emergency cesarean," he says quietly, though not quietly enough. "The heart rate isn't stabilizing. If we can't deliver in the next few minutes…"

Sophie's eyes fly open.

Through the haze of pain and exhaustion, she finds my face. I see everything in that look—terror, desperation, love, the absolute certainty that she's not ready for this but has no choice.

"Adrian."

"I'm here." I lean close, pressing my forehead to hers. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

"It’s a nightmare."

"You've survived things that would have destroyed anyone else." I pull back just enough to see her face. "A scandal that should have broken you. A man like me, with all my darkness. And you're still here. Still fighting."

"I don't feel strong."

"Our child is almost here." I stroke her cheek with my thumb. "Baby needs you to hold on just a little longer. Can you do that? For her?"

Sophie's jaw tightens. Something shifts in her eyes—determination breaking through the exhaustion.

"For our child," she whispers.

The doctor makes his decision.

"We're proceeding with emergency intervention," he announces, and suddenly the room is moving—nurses prepping equipment, someone calling for the surgical team, hands reaching for Sophie to adjust her position.

I'm pushed aside.

"Sir, you need to step back."

"I'm not leaving her."

"We need room to work. Please."

"Adrian." Sophie's voice cuts through the chaos. She's reaching for me, her hand straining toward mine as they wheel her bed further into the bright lights. "Adrian!"

"I'm here!" I try to push past the nurse blocking me. "I'm right here, Sophie!"

"You need to wait outside."

"Like hell I do!"

"Sir." The nurse's voice is firm but not unkind. "If you want us to save them both, you need to let us work."

The words hit like a physical blow. Save them both. The implication that there's a scenario where we don't save them both.

I stop fighting.

Sophie disappears behind a curtain of blue scrubs, her hand still reaching for me, my name still on her lips. The last thing I see is her face—pale, terrified, beautiful—before she's gone.

I stand alone in the delivery room.

Machines beep. Nurses rush past. Somewhere beyond that curtain, doctors are cutting into the woman I love to save the child we created.

I've never prayed before. Never believed in anything beyond my own control—my own strength, my own will, my own ability to shape outcomes through sheer force of determination.

But standing here, helpless, watching the woman carrying my child disappear into a fight I can't join—I pray.

To God, to the universe, to whatever force governs the chaos of existence.

‘Please. Please let them live. Both of them. I'll do anything. Be anything. Just let them live.’

The minutes stretch into eternity.

And Adrian Lewis, the man who never believed in anything, prays.