SCARLETT
What? Blood?
The word echoed in my mind, bouncing off the sterile white walls of the emergency room like a cruel joke.
Blood.
I held our son—my son—against my chest, clutching him as if I could protect him just by holding tighter. His tiny body was limp in my arms, his forehead marked with a red bump already blooming like a warning sign. His skin was too pale. His breathing was shallow. I whispered soothing words against his hair—nonsense phrases meant to calm him, but they were more for me than him. Because I was unraveling.
Vincent stood beside me, pale as a ghost. I had never seen fear on his face before—not like this. His hands trembled slightly, his jaw clenched like he was bracing for impact. This man—always calm, always composed—was falling apart beside me. And it gut
