EMMALINE
The days after that conversation blur together.
I tell myself I don’t believe him. That Dante’s words were just another one of his twisted games, another way to break me down. But no matter how many times I repeat that in my head, the doubt doesn’t go away. It lingers quietly, waiting for the right moment to whisper again.
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, my hand on my stomach, and I wonder what kind of world this child is going to be born into. What kind of father Alexander will be.
If he ever gets the chance to be one at all.
I hate myself for thinking that way. For letting Dante’s voice slip into my thoughts when I promised myself I wouldn’t. But when you spend this much time locked away, with no one else to talk to, even lies start to sound like truth.
He
