“Renzo told me I might be there for hours... even days,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “But you came for me after barely ten minutes.”
“Why?”
My voice was quiet.
But steady enough.
I lifted my eyes to him.
Met his gaze.
For a long moment, he didn’t answer.
Just looked at me.
Those dark eyes—dangerous, unreadable—holding mine like he was weighing something. Deciding something.
Then, finally—
His voice dropped.
“Because I couldn’t stand it.”
A ragged breath tore from my chest before I could stop it, shaky and uneven, like my body was struggling to keep up with the weight of what he’d just said.
“Not because you believed I didn’t hit your mistress?”
My voice wavered, but I forced it to hold.
“Not because you finally realized I ran because I refuse to let anyone—anyone—take away my right to choose whether or not I ever carry a child?”
The words came out sharper than I expected.
Defiant. Tired.
Broken.
He turned away from me, walking to the door with long, controlled strides.
He pulled it open just enough to look out into the hallway, his posture rigid, like sheer force of will could summon the doctor faster.
The silence stretched.
Thick.
Uncomfortable.
“Have I finished paying, or do you plan to make me suffer even longer?”
He didn’t respond immediately.
Just stood there for a long moment, one hand resting against the doorframe as though he was restraining something inside himself.
Then, slowly—
He turned.
His eyes found mine again.
