I never told my in-laws that I am the daughter of the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. When I was seven months pregnant, they forced me to cook the entire Christmas dinner alone.

The ride to the hospital was a blur of flashing red sirens, the rhythmic thumping of the ambulance tires over asphalt, and the sharp, clinical voices of the paramedics stabilizing my vitals. Outside the small rear window of the ambulance, a police escort of four state trooper cruisers cleared the highway, blocking intersections and forcing holiday traffic to the shoulders so our convoy could maintain seventy miles per hour through the city.

Inside the back of the ambulance, Agent Miller held a satellite phone to his ear, nodding sharply before holding it near my face.

“Elena? Sweetheart, can you hear me?” My father’s voice came through the receiver, no longer the intimidating Attorney General, but a terrified father trying to hold himself together for his only child.

“I’m here, Dad,” I whispered into the oxygen mask, squeezing the paramedic’s gloved hand as a contraction peaked, robbing me of my breath.

“I’m in the air right now, Elena. My helicopter left Joint Base Andrews ten minutes ago. I will be on the roof of Johns Hopkins before they get you into the surgical suite,” he promised, his voice thick with emotion. “You hold on to that little girl, do you hear me? You are a Vance. We don’t break under pressure.”

“I’m holding on,” I promised, closing my eyes as the ambulance slammed to a halt outside the brightly lit emergency room bays.

The rear doors flew open, and the chill November air rushed over my flushed skin. A multidisciplinary team of doctors and nurses in green scrubs swarmed the gurney instantly, shouting medical telemetry as they sprinted alongside me down the white-tiled corridors toward the emergency trauma elevators.

“32-year-old female, 34 weeks pregnant, acute abdominal trauma resulting from blunt force assault!” the resident physician yelled as the elevator doors slid shut. “Severe vaginal bleeding, rigid abdomen, fetal bradycardia! We need an O.R. prepped for an immediate emergency Cesarean section under general anesthesia!”

As they wheeled me into the freezing, sterile brightness of Operating Room 4, the bright surgical lights overhead blinded me. Nurses rapidly stripped away my blood-soaked maternity clothes, bathing my abdomen in cold, yellow iodine solution while an anesthesiologist hovered over my head, fitting a secure mask over my face.

“Count backward from ten for me, Elena,” the anesthesiologist said softly, brushing a damp strand of hair from my forehead. “When you wake up, your little girl is going to be safely in your arms.”