And pain.
The dull, relentless throb of afterpains.
The sting in my chest. The raw ache in my throat.
The silence where my baby should have been.
No kicks. No pressure.
Only the unbearable question clawing at my mind—
Is he alive?
I had hidden behind the tallest pile of crumpled papers and discarded clothing, every instinct I had left screaming at me to survive.
To stay hidden. To stay alert.
If anyone came through that door, I would fight.
Use whatever strength remained in these exhausted limbs.
Because weakness here meant death.
I had not survived everything I had endured just to die like this.
I was CIA-trained once.
Even broken, I could still be lethal.
And when I finally spotted a figure in the dim room, desperation overtook me.
I lunged forward, swinging wildly in a frantic attempt to knock the person unconscious.
But he was far more skilled than I expected.
In one fluid motion, he deflected my attack, twisted free, and sent me sprawling across the floor with a powerful kick.
Only then did the dim light reveal his face.
Vincenzo.
Shock didn’t even begin to describe what slammed into me.
The man who had heartlessly thrown me and our son into a freezing room on the word of his mistress wouldn’t hesitate to leave me to die in this warehouse if it suited him.
Why would he care now?
I had watched him beg for forgiveness earlier, his voice raw and desperate, as though absolution were something I could simply hand over.
As if I could erase the cruel words he’d hurled at me, the humiliation he’d forced me to endure in front of his mistress, the threats, the punishments.
As if I could forget it all and open my arms to him again.
No.
A man like that deserved nothing from me.
I had seen how broken he looked, yet I felt nothing.
