Chapter 2

Ayla Warner POV:

The world spun, my body a puppet on strings that had suddenly been cut. Pain, a blinding, all-consuming agony, tore through me. I heard muffled screams, my own, perhaps, or someone else' s.

Then, darkness.

When I woke, the world was white. The fluorescent lights of a hospital room hummed above me. The air smelled of antiseptic and regret.

A kind-faced nurse bustled in. "Dr. Warner, you're awake! How are you feeling?"

I tried to speak, but my throat was dry, raw. A dull ache radiated from my lower abdomen. "What... what happened?"

The nurse' s smile faltered. "You had a severe episode, Dr. Warner. You lost consciousness at the gala. We've been monitoring you closely." She checked my IV drip. "There's something else we need to discuss."

"What is it?" A new fear, cold and sharp, pierced through the haze of pain.

The nurse paused, her gaze softening. "Dr. Warner, you were pregnant. About eight weeks along."

My mind went blank. Pregnant? I squeezed my eyes shut, a wave of nausea sweeping over me. Pregnant. A baby. Craig' s baby.

"I' m so sorry, Dr. Warner," she continued, her voice gentle. "We did everything we could, but... you' ve had a miscarriage."

The words hung in the air, heavy, suffocating. Miscarriage. The child I didn't even know I had was gone. The world tilted. A cry tore through me, a primal wail of grief and despair.

"Are you alright, Dr. Warner?" The nurse looked at me with concern. "Would you like me to call your husband? He hasn't been by yet."

My tears flowed freely, hot and bitter. My husband. The man who pushed me, who dismissed my pain as theatrics, who left me bleeding on the floor to care for his mistress. He was the reason.

"No," I choked out, shaking my head violently. "Don't call him."

She nodded, sensing my distress. "Alright. Just try to rest. You' ve been through a lot. Emotionally and physically."

I closed my eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. My mind replayed the last few days, fragments of our life together. Craig. The man who had once been my everything.

We' d met in college. He was ambitious, charming, destined for greatness. I was just a bright-eyed science student, dreaming of changing the world. He' d swept me off my feet.

"Ayla, my love for you is eternal, boundless. I' ll always trust you, always protect you." He' d whispered those words to me on our wedding day, his eyes shining with what I thought was genuine affection.

I remembered the time my lab caught fire, a faulty wire sparking. He' d rushed in, pulling me from the flames himself, a hero in every sense of the word. He' d risked his own life for mine.

Then there was the scholarship. I' d almost lost it, my family struggling financially. He' d quietly paid off my debts, secured my future, all without me knowing until much later. "You deserve to pursue your dreams, Ayla," he' d said, holding my hand. "Always."

Our wedding day. His vows, echoing in the grand hall. "I promise to love you, to cherish you, to build a family with you, Ayla. Forever."

Had it all been a lie? Every word, every gesture, every shared moment? My heart, already shattered, splintered further. The man I loved, the father of the child I just lost, had become a monster.

A soft knock interrupted my painful memories. The door creaked open. It was Craig.

He looked... haggard. His usually perfect hair was disheveled, his suit wrinkled. He walked towards the bed, his expression unreadable.

"Ayla," he said, his voice low, laced with a strange mix of concern and something else I couldn't quite place. "I heard. Are you alright?"

I stared at him, my eyes burning. How could he ask that?

"Craig," the nurse said, stepping forward, her tone sharper than before. "Dr. Warner just suffered a very traumatic loss. A miscarriage. She needs rest, and frankly, she needs support. She shouldn't be alone."

Craig looked startled, then his gaze shifted to me, a flicker of something resembling guilt in his eyes. "A miscarriage?" he repeated, his voice barely a whisper.

Just then, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and his face instantly hardened. "Damn it," he muttered. "Ashley's having another panic attack. I have to go."

He turned to leave. My blood ran cold. "Craig!" I cried out, a raw, desperate plea tearing from my throat. "Craig, please! My stomach... the bleeding..."

He paused, glancing back at me, his expression impatient. "Ayla, I told you, stop with the dramatics. Ashley needs me. You'll be fine. Just sleep it off."

And then, he was gone.

He left. Again. For her. While I lay here, bleeding, losing our child.

My vision tunneled. The world went black.

When I next opened my eyes, the room was dimly lit. My head throbbed. The pain in my abdomen was a dull ache now, a constant reminder of what was lost.

The doctor, a kind older woman, sat beside my bed. She folded her hands, her expression grave. "Dr. Warner, I have your test results."

My heart pounded. "What is it?"

"You were pregnant, Ayla. But... we also found something else during the examination." She paused, her gaze meeting mine. "You have significant internal bruising. Especially around your abdomen. It appears to be consistent with blunt force trauma."

Blunt force trauma. Craig pushing me. The shove. It wasn' t just an argument. It was violence. It was physical abuse. And it led to this.

"We also detected traces of a sedative in your system," the doctor continued, her voice clinical, objective. "A strong one. Enough to render you unconscious, but perhaps not noticed if you were already distressed."

A sedative? My mind reeled. Had Ashley done something? Or Craig?

The doctor sighed. "Listen, Ayla. I'm a doctor, not a detective. But I've seen enough. You need to take care of yourself. And you need to seriously consider the environment you're in. This isn't healthy."

Her words were a cold splash of water, cutting through my grief and shock. He had manipulated me. Gaslighted me. Physically harmed me. And now, I had lost our baby.

A quiet rage began to simmer beneath my pain. This wasn't just sadness anymore. It was fury. It was a determination to survive. And to make him pay.

I looked at the doctor, my voice firm despite its tremor. "Doctor," I said, "I need to make some calls. And I need to get out of here."

I would not break. I would not let him win.

A slight, almost imperceptible nod passed between us. The doctor's gaze was knowing. "Take care, Ayla," she said, before leaving me alone in the sterile white room.

Later that evening, after the nurses had changed my IV and checked my vitals, a different Craig appeared. He was impeccably dressed, a bouquet of my favorite white lilies in his hand. He looked like the caring, devoted husband he once was.

"Ayla, my love," he said, his voice soft, contrite. "I am so, so sorry. I should have been here. I truly regret leaving you." He sat beside me, reaching for my hand.

I pulled my hand away, my gaze unwavering. "Don't touch me."

His expression faltered. "Ayla, please. I know I messed up. But Ashley... she was in a bad way. You know how sensitive she is."

"Sensitive?" My laugh was harsh, brittle. "She's a manipulative sociopath, Craig! And you are her protector. You defend her, you enable her, you believe her over me!"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Ayla, you're not thinking clearly. This whole situation, with the award, your sister... it's really gotten to you. You're imagining things."

"Imagining things?" I repeated, my voice rising. "I lost our baby, Craig! Our baby! Because you shoved me! Because you cared more about her manufactured panic attack than my actual pain! And you gaslighted me, saying I was being dramatic!"

His eyes widened, feigning shock. "Shoved you? Ayla, I barely touched you! You were hysterical! And you lost the baby because you're stressed, not because of anything I did. Don't you dare blame me for this!" His voice was filled with a chilling self-righteousness. "And besides, we can have another baby. When you're ready to be a good mother."

My heart turned to ice. He was beyond redemption. There was no going back.

I wanted to scream, to rail against his cruelty. But a strange calm settled over me. He wasn't worth my tears. He wasn't worth my anger. He was just... gone. The Craig I loved, the Craig I married, was a ghost.

My mind drifted back to our beginning. The passionate young man who believed in my dreams. The way he used to look at me, like I held the stars in my eyes. The way he held my hand, a silent promise of forever. He was a memory, a lie.

He's changed, Ayla. The thought echoed in my mind, stark and undeniable. He's not the man you married.

I had to get out. I had to end this.

I found my voice, calm, steady. "Craig," I said, "I want a divorce."

He froze, his carefully constructed composure cracking. "Ayla, don't be ridiculous. You're just upset."

"No," I said, meeting his gaze head-on. "I'm not upset. I'm done."

He made a move to touch me again, his hand reaching for mine. I recoiled as if burned. "Don't," I warned, my voice cold.

He looked bewildered, then angry. "What is this, Ayla? Some kind of game?"

I ignored him, reaching for the bedside table. My phone. He' d left it. I scrolled through my contacts. I knew who to call. Kenneth Shannon. A man who had always been kind, always respected me, always saw my worth.

Just as I found his number, a soft knock came from the door.