Chapter 4
1302 Words
What Wasn’t Meant to Be
Rhea sat in her car, fingers resting motionless on the steering wheel, the radio playing softly in the background. Asher’s voice still rang in her ears from their conversation that morning.
“It’s just dinner with your mom, Rhea. I’ve got a pitch tomorrow. You know how tense things are with the department.”
She hadn’t said much in response. Just nodded. Smiled faintly. Let him believe she understood.
And she did—at least, she tried to. Work was important. Deadlines loomed. Promotions didn’t come easy. But this was her mother. A casual visit, a home-cooked meal, a chance for warmth she hadn’t felt in weeks. Still, the moment she expressed even a hint of disappointment, Asher had bristled.
“You make me feel like I’m never doing enough. Do you know how exhausting that is?”
So she backed off. Again. Like always.
And now she was driving alone through the narrow lanes toward her childhood neighborhood, staring blankly ahead as her heart reeled.
Was she asking too much?
Isn’t that the point of a marriage—to be someone’s soft place to land? If I have to carry myself through every hard moment, then what was the point of saying ‘I do’?
She blinked back tears and turned the corner.
—
The flash of headlights came from nowhere.
A horn. Screeching tires. A sudden jolt so violent it ripped a scream from her throat.
And then—darkness.
—
“Miss—hey—hey, stay with me, okay?”
A voice.
Warm. Firm. Present.
She fluttered her eyes open just slightly. A spinning blur of lights. Glass. The metallic scent of burning rubber.
“Don’t move,” the voice instructed gently. “You're bleeding, but you’re still breathing. That’s good. You’re going to be okay.”
Strong hands pressed against her shoulder. A face came into view—sharpened features under the dim glow of streetlights, his hair dusted with debris. A denim jacket. Tan skin streaked with ash and sweat. And eyes—those same calming, sharp eyes she had seen once before.
“Wh… what happened…” she whispered, her voice cracked and thin.
“Your car was hit. Rolled over,” he said calmly. “You’re lucky it didn’t ignite.”
He was crouched beside her now, partially inside the overturned driver’s door he’d forced open with help from a passerby. One hand cradled her head, keeping it steady.
“I’ve called the ambulance. Just hold on, alright? Help is coming.”
Her breath hitched in pain.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“R… Rhea.”
“I’m Lucian,” he replied. “You’re safe now, Rhea. I’ve got you.”
The hospital smelled like antiseptic and old paper. Machines beeped rhythmically. Nurses moved with practiced calmness. Lucian sat outside the emergency treatment area, his hands still speckled with dried blood. He hadn’t left. Not when the paramedics asked him to stay, not when Rhea had been wheeled in unconscious, not even when a nurse offered to call someone else.
He wasn’t sure why. Only that something inside him wouldn’t let him walk away.
Hours passed before a nurse came to the waiting area.
“She’s awake.”
Lucian stood immediately. “Can I see her?”
“She’s still drowsy, but—yes. Briefly.”
The room was dim, the blinds drawn. Rhea lay pale and quiet beneath crisp white sheets, an IV running into her arm. Her hair was matted near her temple where they had treated the wound. Her lips parted slightly as her eyes fluttered open.
She looked up. Saw Lucian.
“You stayed?”
He offered a soft nod. “Of course.”
Then came the nurse. A clipboard in hand, her face gently somber.
“Mrs. Asher,” she began, “I just want to say—I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Rhea frowned. “Loss?”
The nurse paused. “You... weren’t told?”
“Told what?” Rhea’s voice rose, hoarse and uneven.
“You were six weeks pregnant. The impact caused... a miscarriage. We tried, but the bleeding was too severe by the time you arrived. I’m deeply sorry. We did everything we could.”
Silence.
The words floated in the air like falling glass. It took a second—then another—for meaning to settle in.
“I… I was pregnant?” Rhea choked.
Her hand went instinctively to her stomach. Flat. Still. Empty.
And then the tears came. Not soft or silent, but loud, gasping sobs that shook her entire frame. She covered her face, fingers trembling, the weight of the truth crashing into her like a second collision.
“It’s my fault,” she wept. “I didn’t even know—how could I not know—why didn’t I…”
Lucian stepped forward instinctively, the raw sound of her sobs slicing through him. He crossed the room without hesitation, and this time, he didn’t stop at the edge of the bed.
He sat beside her gently, careful not to jostle her IV, and wrapped his arms around her trembling frame.
At first, Rhea stiffened at the sudden contact—but only for a second. Then she collapsed into him, burying her face into his chest as the dam inside her gave way completely. Her cries were no longer muffled but loud and unrestrained, each one stabbing through the sterile quiet of the hospital room.
Lucian held her tightly, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other rubbing slow, grounding circles along her back. His chin rested lightly on her crown, his own eyes glistening but dry.
“You’re okay,” he whispered, over and over. “I’ve got you. You’re not alone.”
Rhea clung to him like a lifeline, her fingers clutching the front of his shirt as if she might drown without it. His steady heartbeat beneath her ear was the only thing anchoring her to the moment.
The nurse hesitated, eyes shifting between them. “I’ll… give you both a moment.”
Before stepping out, she added gently, “Again, I’m sorry. For both of you. We couldn’t save your baby.”
Lucian’s eyes flickered in confusion, but he said nothing. Only after she left did Rhea realize the implication.
“I think… she thought you were my husband,” she said weakly.
Lucian offered a small, apologetic smile. “I didn’t correct her.”
Rhea gave a tired, bitter laugh. “Maybe it’s easier that way.”
A quiet moment passed.
Then Lucian reached into his back pocket and placed a small card on her bedside table.
“My number. In case you… need anything. Or just want to yell into a phone.”
Rhea blinked, still dazed. “Why are you being so kind?”
He hesitated. Then said, simply, “Because grief shouldn’t have to walk alone.”
He gave her one last glance—not intense, just steady. Then he left.
—
It was nearly dawn when Asher arrived.
His hair was unkempt, shirt wrinkled, and his eyes red as if he hadn’t slept the moment he received the call. When he entered Rhea’s room and saw her sitting upright, silent and tear-stained, something in his expression broke.
“Rhea,” he whispered, rushing to her side.
She didn’t speak. Just let herself be held.
“I’m so sorry,” he said against her hair. “I should’ve been there. If I had gone with you—God, I didn’t even know…”
“Me either,” she whispered.
They held each other, two people mourning something they hadn’t expected but suddenly felt shattered without.
For now, there were no more arguments.
Just the quiet ache of something lost too soon.
- Writer
