The locked room. The darkness pressing in. The walls that felt like they were closing in on me.
Julian’s voice outside the door: “Stay there until you admit what you did.”
I remembered screaming until my throat tore, begging, pounding on the door until my hands bled. My claustrophobia took over—air disappearing, space shrinking, my chest tightening until I couldn’t tell where I ended anymore.
Then everything went black.
“The baby,” I whispered suddenly, my hand flying to my stomach.
The nurse’s expression changed immediately. “I’m so sorry. You miscarried. The stress, the trauma your body went through—”
Her voice faded into background noise.
The baby was gone.
Logically, I should’ve felt relief. I had already planned to end the pregnancy anyway. But there was nothing like that. Only emptiness. Like something inside me had been quietly erased.
“There’s someone here to see you,” the nurse said softly.
Before I could respond, the door opened.
Julian walked in.
His face was unreadable as he stopped near the foot of my bed, hands tucked into his pockets, studying me like I was something inconvenient he had to deal with.
“You’re awake,” he said flatly.
I didn’t answer.