His jaw tightened.
“And the realization that I used my own authority — my power — to lock you away while you were pregnant...”
His voice broke again — this time visibly.
“...it destroys me.”
He dragged a hand down his face. “I buried my son.”
The admission was self-condemning.
“Your first pregnancy didn’t die from fate. It died because of my decisions. Because I trusted falsified evidence. Because I believed lies over the woman who was carrying my blood.”
His eyes lifted — filled with something that looked dangerously close to shame.
“I know how those nine months were for you.”
His voice softened. “The humiliation. The isolation. The beatings. The starvation.”
Each word landed carefully — deliberately.
“I know what prison did to your body.”
His gaze flicked briefly to my stomach — then away again.
“And I know nothing I say can undo it.”
He stepped slightly closer — cautiously now, like approaching something wounded.
“Nothing I do can bring him back.”
His voice dropped. “Nothing I suffer will ever balance the scale.”
His lips pressed into a thin line.
“So I’m not asking for forgiveness anymore.”
That caught my attention.
He shook his head. “I’ve stopped expecting it.”
His eyes locked onto mine with renewed intensity.
“I just want proximity.”
The word felt deliberate. “I want to exist near you — even if you see me as punishment.”
His expression shifted again — raw sincerity bleeding through.
“If being near you means I become your servant... your slave... someone you use for leverage against me...”
He inhaled sharply. “Then I accept it.”
His shoulders lowered — a posture I’d never seen from him before.
“I’ll suffer for as long as you need me to suffer.”
His voice lowered even further. “I’ll bleed for you.”
