The delivery room was colder than usual, or maybe it only felt that way because Damiano couldn't stop shaking. The alarms had gone off seconds earlier, nurses rushing in, doctors shouting codes he couldn't understand. All he knew—all he could feel—was terror.
Estrella was coming. And she wasn't ready.
Aaliyah was slipping in and out of consciousness, her skin pale, her breaths shallow. Damiano held her hand so tightly his knuckles went white.
Damiano: "Aaliyah, stay with me. Please. Please."
Her eyelids fluttered.
She couldn't speak.
And then the doctor yelled:
Doctor: "We have to get the baby out NOW—her heart rate is crashing!"
Damiano's world split open.
He felt someone grab him by the shoulders—Winona on one side, Dylan on the other—both trying to keep him from collapsing to the floor as Aaliyah's bed was rushed into the emergency delivery room.
He wasn't allowed in.
The doors slammed shut in his face.
And he heard the worst sound imaginable:
The flat, fading beep of Estrella's heart monitor.
Inside the OR
Aaliyah was barely conscious, drifting in and out, but her mind clung to one thing:
Estrella. My baby. Don't leave me.
Machines crowded around her. Voices overlapped. Someone pushed oxygen into her lungs; someone else shouted that her blood pressure was falling too fast.
Doctor: "We're losing both of them—move!"
And then—
A silence sharp enough to break the world.
Outside
Damiano sank to the floor. Winona wrapped her arms around him while Dylan stood guard, staring at the reporters gathering behind security.
The press smelled blood.
Cameras flashed against the glass.
Microphones rose like weapons.
Reporter: "Is it true the baby isn't breathing?"
Reporter 2: "Is Aaliyah dying?"
Reporter 3: "Damiano, do you regret the relationship now?"
Security tried to block them, but the mob was relentless.
Dylan snapped first.
Dylan: "BACK. THE HELL. OFF!"
Winona joined, her voice cutting like thunder.
Winona: "This is a hospital—you animals have no humanity!"
But the reporters kept pushing, shouting, recording, twisting.
Until—
Sirens flared.
Police cars skidded to the entrance.
Someone powerful had intervened.
A black SUV pulled up.
An international security team stepped out, flashing badges, creating a wall between the press and the family in seconds.
No one knew who sent them.
Damiano didn't care.
He was shaking too hard to ask.
Back inside the OR
A cry.
Barely a whisper.
So faint it almost wasn't there.
A nurse gasped.
Nurse: "She's breathing! Weak—extremely weak—but breathing!"
The doctor didn't look relieved; he looked terrified.
Doctor: "She needs full support immediately. Move the incubator—NOW!"
Tiny, fragile, almost weightless—Estrella entered the world with a heartbeat so slow it could stop any second.
Her skin was blue.
Her fingers motionless.
Her chest rising only by millimeters.
But she was alive.
Barely.
Aaliyah
Her heart monitor spiked—then dropped.
Spiked again.
Dropped again.
Doctor: "We're losing the mother! Get more oxygen—prepare for transfusion—keep her awake!"
But she couldn't stay awake.
Her body was shutting down.
And then—
Everything went dark.
The world outside
Phones around the globe lit up.
BREAKING NEWS:
"Aaliyah and her newborn daughter in critical condition."
Italy froze.
The U.S. froze.
Fans, celebrities, strangers—they all stopped breathing for a moment.
#TeamAaliyah trended worldwide within minutes.
People prayed.
Cried.
Waited.
Refreshed their screens every second.
It felt like the entire planet was inside that hallway with Damiano, Winona, and Dylan.
Waiting.
Begging.
Hoping.
Damiano
When the doctor finally appeared, covered in sweat, surgical cap still on, Damiano stumbled toward him.
But the doctor didn't speak yet.
He just looked at Damiano with eyes full of exhaustion and fear.
The hallway went silent.
The cameras.
The world.
Time itself.
Everything stopped.
And Damiano whispered:
Damiano: "Please… tell me they're alive."