The hospital room felt smaller with every passing hour. The beeping machines had become a cruel lullaby I couldn’t escape. Adrian hadn’t left my side. His suit jacket was crumpled on the chair. His sleeves were rolled up, eyes bloodshot. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
“Aria,” he whispered, reaching for my hand with his shaky hands. His fingers were cold. “I’m so f*****g sorry. I should’ve been there. I should’ve protected you from.. from all of this.”
I stared at the ceiling, tears drying on my cheeks. The doctor’s words kept replaying: miscarriage… approximately two weeks.
Two weeks ago I had been bent over our kitchen counter with Adrian inside me, raw and desperate. And the night before that… Nikolas. His penthouse. The way he’d claimed every inch of me like I already belong
