Chapter 4

Dahlia POV

The screams of the socialites were a distant echo in my ears. Gideon, momentarily stunned, stared at the spreading crimson stain on my dress, his face a mask of disbelief. He knelt beside me, a flicker of something akin to concern in his eyes.

"Dahlia? What is this?" he asked, his voice harsh, accusing, as if I had somehow manufactured the blood to spite him. "Why are you bleeding?"

The pain was a white-hot inferno, engulfing my lower body. I couldn't form words, only

gasps. "Help me," I choked out, tears streaming down my face. "Please, it hurts so much."

Elsa, who had been watching with a triumphant smirk, now stepped forward, her face a mask of false sweetness. "Oh, Dahlia, stop being so dramatic. You' re not pregnant. You told me yourself you haven't been able to conceive. It's probably just... your period. You just need to go home and rest." Her words were meant to dismiss my pain, to erase any hint of the truth.

Gideon looked at Elsa, then back at me, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. "Not pregnant? See, I knew it. Always making a mountain out of a molehill, Dahlia. For a moment, I thought..." He trailed off, shaking his head. He was disappointed I wasn't carrying his child, not concerned for my life.

I couldn't speak. The agony was too intense, a relentless tearing inside me. My body convulsed, a wave of nausea making me gag.

"Get her out of here," Gideon snapped, turning to a waiter. "She's causing a scene. Call her a cab. She needs to go home. And clean this up." He gestured dismissively at the growing pool of blood. He was throwing me away, again, like yesterday, like every other time.

Just then, a deep, calm voice cut through the cacophony of gasps and whispers. "What in God's name is happening here?"

Alva. He stood at the edge of the crowd, his eyes, usually so impassive, now blazing with a cold fury. He pushed through the onlookers, his gaze immediately falling on me, crumpled on the floor, the stark crimson against my pale skin.

His eyes widened in horror. "Dahlia!" He was beside me in an instant, dropping to his knees, his hands gentle as he assessed the situation.

"She's fine, neighbor boy," Gideon scoffed, trying to sound authoritative. "Just a bit of a... feminine issue. Nothing for you to concern yourself with."

Alva ignored him. His hands were already on my wrist, checking my pulse. His face was grim. "This is not a 'feminine issue,' Gideon. She's hemorrhaging." He looked up, his voice booming with unexpected authority. "Someone call an ambulance! Now!"

Chaos erupted again. People scrambling for their phones. Elsa looked furious, her carefully constructed image crumbling.

"There's no need for an ambulance!" Gideon protested, grabbing Alva's shoulder. "She's my wife! I'll take care of her!"

Alva shrugged off Gideon's hand with surprising force. His eyes, usually so reserved, were now like chips of ice. "You've done enough, Gideon. More than enough." He turned to the nearest guest. "You! Call 911! Tell them we have a severe internal hemorrhage!"

He then pulled off his own expensive dinner jacket, a dark, well-tailored piece, and gently, but firmly, draped it over my lower body, shielding me from the prying eyes, preserving what little dignity I had left.

Elsa, infuriated by Alva's take-charge attitude and the disruption to her party, tried to interject. "This is ridiculous! She's just looking for attention! She probably just spilled wine on herself!"

Alva turned his head slightly, his gaze piercing. "Be quiet, Elsa. Before I make you." His voice was low, but it held a chilling edge that silenced her instantly. The room fell into an awkward, terrified hush.

I looked at Alva, my vision swimming, my body wracked with pain. He was my anchor in this storm, the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly become a blur of agony and betrayal.

The wail of sirens grew closer, then closer still. Paramedics rushed in, their faces grim as they saw the scene. They barked orders, their movements swift and efficient.

As they carefully transferred me onto a stretcher, I caught a glimpse of Gideon. He wasn't looking at me. He was standing beside Elsa, his arm around her, whispering something to comfort her. Her. Not me. Not his dying wife.

The last thing I saw before the doors of the ballroom swung shut was Gideon, his head bent towards Elsa, his hand gently stroking her hair. He had chosen her, again and again. Even now, as my life hung in the balance.

The ambulance ride was a dizzying blur of flashing lights, the rhythmic thump of my own weakening heart, and the urgent voices of the paramedics. At the hospital, it was a repeat of yesterday, but more frantic. More severe.

This time, Alva never left my side. Not in the ambulance. Not in the sterile waiting room. He stood vigil outside the operating theater, a silent, unmoving guardian. Gideon, of course, was nowhere to be seen. A text message from him arrived hours later, while I was still in surgery: "Hope you're not making too much of a scene. Elsa's still shaken up. Call me when you're done." No mention of my condition, no concern for my life.

I woke up, again, to the dull ache of a new incision, a little lower this time. The room was dark, quiet. Alva was there, asleep in the same chair, his head tilted awkwardly.

A nurse came in, her face somber. She checked my vitals, then sat down beside me, her hand resting gently on my arm.

"Ms. Rogers," she began, her voice soft, "I'm so sorry. The surgery was successful, we stopped the bleeding, but... you've lost the pregnancy. Again."

The words, though expected, still struck me with devastating force. My baby. Gone. The tiny spark of hope, extinguished, not once, but twice. My body, my dreams, shattered.

A sob tore through me, raw and guttural. Tears streamed down my face, hot and salty, soaking the pillow. Alva stirred, waking up, his eyes immediately finding mine. He saw my tears, saw the nurse's grave expression, and understood. He said nothing, simply got up, pulled a tissue from the box on the nightstand, and gently wiped my tears. He just stood there, a solid, comforting presence in my grief.

In that moment of profound loss, surrounded by two strangers who showed more care than my own husband, a fierce, cold resolve hardened within me. This pain, this profound betrayal, would not break me. It would forge me. I would rise from these ashes. And Gideon and Elsa? They would pay.

Alva cleared his throat, his gaze landing on the small, untouched paper bag on the bedside table. It was the same soup he had brought me earlier, now cold.