Chapter 2

I woke to the blinding white of a hospital ceiling and the steady beeping of a monitor.

My hand went to my stomach. Flat. Too flat.

A strangled sound escaped my throat. I shot up, and agony ripped through me—my ribs, my spine, my pelvis—everything screamed.

A nurse rushed in. "Mrs. Ashford, please lie down. You sustained severe injuries from the fall. Two fractured ribs and significant internal bleeding. The doctors did everything they could."

"My baby." My voice was barely a whisper. "Where's my baby?"

The nurse hesitated. That pause told me everything.

"The trauma from the fall caused a placental abruption. By the time we got you into surgery..." She swallowed. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Ashford. We couldn't save the baby."

The room tilted. I heard a sound—a raw, animal wail—and it took me a moment to realize it was coming from me.

Nine months. I had carried this baby for nine months. Through the loneliness, through Dominic's neglect, through every night I spent alone while he attended to Serena's endless crises. This baby was the only thing keeping me going.

And now she was gone.

"Where's my husband?" I choked out.

The nurse looked uncomfortable. "Mr. Ashford... was contacted three hours ago. He said he'd come as soon as he could."

Three hours. My baby was dead, and my husband hadn't come in three hours.

I grabbed my phone from the bedside table with shaking hands and called him. It rang five times before he picked up.

"Freya, I'm in the middle of something. Serena had a panic attack when she heard about your fall. I'm trying to calm her down."

I couldn't breathe. "Dominic. The baby is dead."

Silence.

Then: "What?"

"Our daughter. She's gone. I fell down the stairs and she's gone."

More silence. I could hear Serena sobbing theatrically in the background, and Dominic murmuring something soothing to her.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was strangely controlled. "I'll be there when I can. Just... let me make sure Serena's okay first. She's hyperventilating."

The call ended.

I stared at the phone in my hand, and something inside me cracked—not broke, not shattered. Cracked. The kind of crack that runs through a foundation, invisible at first, but irreversible.

I called one more time.

He didn't pick up.

A text came instead: Serena fainted. Taking her to her doctor. Will come tonight. Sorry.

Sorry. One word for our dead daughter.

I set the phone down, pulled the hospital blanket over my hollow stomach, and cried until there was nothing left.

He never came that night.