But I noticed.
By ten that night, Sophie was resting upstairs with a small cast and a clean scan. I found Elias in a dim consultation room, gripping the windowsill so tightly his knuckles had turned white.
“Sophie is stable,” I said. “She should go home in the morning.”
He turned slowly. “Is the baby mine?”
The question was raw, stripped of all his usual armor.
My hand moved to my belly. “Your daughter needs you right now.”
“Adelaide, please.”
“No,” I said, my voice shaking despite myself. “You don’t get to demand answers after one hundred and eighty days of silence.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t look,” I said. “I wanted you to fight for us, Elias. You let me leave.”
Continue on the next page:
