Laughter came from inside.
And a male voice—warm, playful, painfully familiar—chilled me to the bone.
“Open your mouth, darling. Here comes the little airplane…”
My stomach clenched. 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 caught my breath as I peered inside.
The scene hit me like a ton of bricks.
Laura was sitting up in bed—perfectly healthy, radiant, not at all pale. She was wearing satin pajamas, not a hospital gown. And beside her, patiently feeding her pieces of apple, was Ricardo.
My husband.
His eyes were soft—devoted, just like at the beginning of our marriage.
“My wife is so spoiled,” Ricardo murmured as he wiped the corner of Laura’s mouth with his thumb.
