His fingers were still trembling when they laced through mine — warmth against the cold weight of my skin.
I stared at him—at the bruises blooming across his cheekbone, the one under his eyes, the exhaustion carved into the lines of his face. He looked like a ghost. A beautiful, broken ghost.
I closed my eyes. I wish I could hug him.
Slowly, I pulled my hand from his. The air between us cooled instantly. His gaze lifted, searching mine like he couldn’t quite believe I’d taken that tiny piece of touch away. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. Then, wordlessly, he reached out again, but only to brush a strand of hair away from my forehead. His palm lingered there, warm against my skin, moving slowly, like he was afraid I’d disappear if he blinked.
"Don’t," I whispered, voice trembling. "Please don’t."
His hand froze, hovering inches from my temple. The warmth of his touch still lingered like a phantom ache. His eyes, the color of fire I had traced with my fingertips a thousand tis, widened imperceptibly. The lines of pain and exhaustion on his face seed to deepen, carved by that single, whispered plea.
I saw the mont my rejection lodged in his heart—a flinch so minute it was almost invisible, but I saw it.
His hand slowly lowered, not to the bed, but to his own knee, where his fingers curled into a white-knuckled fist. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the soft hum of the hidden machines.
I blinked, struggling to find the courage to form the question twisting inside .
"Adrien..." My voice ca out thin, cracked, but the question pushed its way through anyway. "Did you... did you find out?"
His brows drew together. "Find out what, sweetheart?"
"That I was pregnant?"
The silence stretched, sharp as glass. His eyes darkened, and he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. The motion was so fragile, it barely existed.
The sound that left my throat wasn’t quite a sob, not yet — more like a broken exhale. "I’m sorry," I whispered. "I wanted to tell you. I wanted it to be perfect. Not over dinner, or randomly but as our wedding gift, I just..."
He shook his head instantly, voice rough. "Don’t. Don’t apologize. You don’t owe that."
But I couldn’t stop. The guilt was a flood now, spilling through every word. "I should have told you. You had every right to know. Maybe if I had—"
"Isabella," he said, almost a plea, his hand finally settling over mine again. "Please stop."
I stared at him, my pulse quickening.
"Adrien..." My voice was barely a whisper.
"The doctor... Dr. Kassel wouldn’t tell ," I pushed on, my voice gaining a desperate strength. "She said I was stable. She said... she wouldn’t answer the question, Adrien. Is my baby okay?"
He stilled.
"Is our baby okay?" I asked again, louder this ti. "Tell . Please. Is our baby okay?"
He didn’t answer.
Just sat there, staring at like the question had stolen the last of his air.
"Answer ," I said, the tremor in my voice rising to a thin, desperate edge. "Please—tell . Is our baby alive?"
His eyes, those beautiful, hollow eyes, swam for a mont. He closed them tightly, a single shudder running through his massive fra. When he opened them, the terrible truth was already written there, a brutal certainty that erased any doubt I might have clinging to.
The silence that stretched between us was a chasm. His inability to answer was a scream louder than any gunshot. My breath hitched in my throat. My heart hamred against my ribs, a frantic trapped bird.
"Adrien," I said, the word barely audible, a prayer whispered into the void. "Please. Just... just look at and tell ."
He finally t my gaze, and the agony etched into his features was a physical blow. His lips parted, and I braced myself, ready for the words I already knew were coming.
"Princess," he began, his voice a broken rasp. He didn’t look away, but his eyes... they were drowning. "The doctors... they did everything they could."
The fragile hope I’d been clinging to, a desperate, foolish ember, was extinguished in an instant. My world fractured. The soft gold walls of the suite seed to press in on , suffocating. The hum of the machines beca a mocking drone.
"No," I whispered, shaking my head, the movent jerky and uncontrolled. "No. You’re lying. You have to be. It’s... it’s a mistake."
Tears, hot and furious, finally broke free, cascading down my cheeks, blurring his face into a watercolor of pain. "No, no, no, no, no," I held my hospital gown by its o-neck and let out an anguished howl.
The sound that tore from my throat was inhuman—a raw, primal scream of grief that shattered the stillness of the suite. My fists clenched in the sheets, twisting the fabric until my knuckles ached, as if the pain could anchor to reality. But reality was the worst kind of nightmare.
"No..." I shook my head, the word collapsing into sobs. "No, no, no..."
Adrien’s hands and body has wrapped up in a hug. I clutched at his shirt, weak, trembling, as the sound tore through the sterile room, my tears soaking through the fabric. He held tighter, as if his arms could sohow hold back the loss itself, but nothing could. "I’m sorry," he kept whispering over and over, voice shattering each ti.
He held tighter, rocking gently as though I were sothing fragile that might crumble if he stopped. My tears soaked through his shirt, hot against his skin. I could feel the tremor running through his body—silent, restrained, a man trying not to break where I could see him.
"I wish I could have protected you," he murmured, voice cracking. "Both of you."
His words hit like shrapnel.
Both of you.
My throat closed. My mind kept replaying it—both of you—as if repetition could make it an sothing else, sothing less final.
But it didn’t. It only made the loss more real.
I pulled back, just enough to see his face. His eyes were red, rimd with exhaustion and sothing else—sothing hollow. His hands were still on either side of my face, trembling as his thumbs brushed uselessly at the tears that wouldn’t stop coming.
His lips parted, but no sound ca. His chest heaved once, twice, before the words finally scraped their way out.
"I failed you."
The admission cracked him open. I could see it—the fracture running right through him, the sa one that lived in now.
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to mine, his breath uneven and shallow. The scent of antiseptic clung to his clothes, mixed with faint smoke and... blood?
"I would trade everything," he whispered hoarsely. "My company, my na—everything—if it ant you didn’t have to feel this."
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to.
But belief didn’t bring back a heartbeat.
It didn’t fill the aching void inside .
It didn’t stop the image that burned behind my eyes—the small, perfect future we’d already started to dream.
My sobs ca harder now, violent, and uncontrollable. I pressed my face into his chest, gasping between breaths, my voice muffled against his shirt. "Why does it have to be us, Adrien? Why do we have to lose sothing so precious?"
He didn’t answer. Maybe because there wasn’t one.
The silence grew heavy again, thick with grief. His hand kept moving—slow strokes through my hair.
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