And a male voice—warm, playful, painfully familiar—froze me to the bone.
“Open your mouth, darling. Here comes the little airplane…”
My stomach sank. That voice had kissed my forehead that very morning. That voice had promised me Valencia.
No. It wasn’t possible.
Trembling, I approached the crack in the door and held my breath as I peered inside.
The scene struck me like a lightning bolt.
Laura sat on the bed, perfectly healthy, radiant, not pale at all. She was wearing satin pajamas, not a hospital gown. And beside her, patiently feeding her pieces of apple, was Ricardo.
My husband.
Her gaze was sweet, devoted, like at the beginning of our marriage.
“My wife is so spoiled,” Ricardo murmured as he wiped the corner of Laura’s lips with his thumb.
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