Selfishly... I wished I had never let her see him.
Because part of me had known—some deep, instinctive part of me had known—that Rafael Pérez did not enter lives gently. He entered them like inevitability.
And inevitability always took something with it when it left.
I pressed my lips together hard, swallowing the sting rising in my throat.
The memories hit without warning—sharp, relentless—dragging me back into a past I had never truly escaped.
I was in that hospital room again. The one that had nearly become my grave.
The sterile scent of antiseptic. The steady, mechanical rhythm of monitors that once convinced me everything would be alright.
I had been nine months pregnant. Almost there. I remember lying in the dark, my hands resting on my belly, searching for movement that never came.
I used to talk to her anyway—softly, desperately—describing a world I could not see: sunlight warming skin, laughter echoing through open spaces, music that could make even pain feel distant.
I had promised her life. I had promised her love.
Then came the pain—sudden, tearing, merciless—followed by blood that wouldn’t stop and a silence that swallowed everything.
Intrauterine fetal demise.
I remember screaming until there was nothing left of my voice. I remember reaching for anything solid enough to hold me together while everything inside me broke apart.
They said it was rare. As if that word could soften it.
And now... the child I had believed was life giving me a second chance had been taken from me too.
Zara was being taken in a different way, but it felt the same. Like history repeating itself with a cruel sense of humor I had never agreed to participate in.
Another child. Another light.
Another piece of me being removed as though I were not already fractured beyond repair.
A hot tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it.
I wiped it away sharply, anger tightening my jaw, but it didn’t matter.
Another followed. Then another.
I hated crying. Hated how it betrayed me.
My shoulders trembled anyway.
I leaned forward, forehead pressing against the cool surface of the desk. It smelled faintly of polish and wealth and Rafael’s world.
“My Tess” I whispered, voice breaking despite myself. “My Tess has been taken from me...”
The words cracked at the end.
I reached blindly toward the computer, fingers shaking until I found the key that activated the read-aloud function. The machine clicked, then came alive with its sterile, artificial calm.
“Upcoming schedule: executive briefing at ten—”
I barely heard it.
“...budget review at eleven-thirty—”
