Chapter 2

White ceiling tiles.

The smell of disinfectant.

Beeping machines.

My hand moved to my stomach automatically, expecting the familiar curve.

Nothing.

Just flatness under the thin hospital gown.

"No." The word came out as a broken whisper. "No, no, no..."

A nurse appeared beside my bed, her expression professionally sympathetic but detached. "Mrs. Ashford, you're awake. I'll notify the doctor."

"My baby—" My voice cracked. "Where's my baby?"

She paused at the door, her hand on the frame. "The doctor will explain everything."

But she didn't come back.

Instead, a care assistant arrived an hour later with my medication, her tone matter-of-fact as she checked my vitals. "You're lucky to be alive."

"My baby—"

"Placental abruption." She marked something on her chart. "Massive hemorrhage. They did emergency surgery, but the baby didn't make it."

The words hit like physical blows.

"And they had to perform a hysterectomy. The bleeding wouldn't stop otherwise."

My son was dead.

My womb was gone.

Any chance of ever having children again—erased.

"Where's my husband?" I tried to sit up, but pain lanced through my abdomen. "Where's Damien?"

"Mrs. Ashford, you need to stay calm—"

"Get him! I need to see him!"

She reached for my IV line. "The doctor ordered sedatives if you became agitated."

"No, please, I just need to talk to—"

The medication hit my bloodstream before I could finish.

My limbs grew heavy, my thoughts fuzzy.

"Wait..." I mumbled, but sleep was already dragging me under.

In my dreams, I was seven years old again.

Damien was the boy next door, sharing his sandwich with me because Mom had forgotten to pack my lunch.

"You can have half," he'd said, his gap-toothed smile wide. "Friends share, right?"

"Friends forever?" I'd asked.

"Forever," he'd promised.

Liar.

The dream shifted.

I was twelve, and Damien was teaching me to ride a bike, running alongside me with his hand on the seat.

"I've got you, Aria! I won't let you fall!"

But he had.

He'd let me fall so hard I'd shattered.

I was sixteen, and Damien was helping me study for finals, his shoulder pressed against mine at the library table.

"You're going to do great. I believe in you."

I was twenty-three, and Damien was on one knee, a ring box trembling in his hands.

"Marry me. Please. I can't imagine my life without you."

I was twenty-seven, and Damien's foot was connecting with my stomach, his face twisted with hatred.

"You don't deserve to live."

I jolted awake with a gasp.

Someone was sitting in the chair beside my bed, silhouetted against the window.

Not Damien.

Lucas.

My brother's jaw was clenched, his arms crossed over his chest like a barrier.

"So," he said, his voice flat and cold. "You're finally awake."

The way he looked at me—like I was something disgusting he'd found on his shoe—made my chest tighten.

"Lucas..." I reached toward him weakly. "Did you see the baby? Did they let you—"

"Don't." He held up one hand. "Just don't."

Something in his tone made my blood run cold.

This wasn't the brother who'd held me when our parents died.

This wasn't the brother who'd taught me to fight back against bullies.

This was a stranger wearing my brother's face.

And from the look in his eyes, I was about to find out exactly how much strangers could hurt you.