Chapter 4

The hallway of New York-Presbyterian Hospital was a study in sterile white. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh, unflattering glare that washed the color out of everything.

Donovan leaned against the wall opposite the operating room doors. His thousand-dollar suit was ruined. There was blood on his sleeves, blood on his pants, blood dried under his fingernails. He didn't care. He couldn't feel anything except the cold dread that had settled in his chest like a block of ice.

The doors were closed. The little red light above them was on. Inside, they were cutting her open. They were trying to stop the bleeding.

He heard the quick, sharp click of shoes on the linoleum. He looked up and saw Eliot Hardin striding down the hallway. His oldest friend. The only person who knew the truth about Gisela, about the revenge plan, about the sham of his marriage.

"How is she?" Eliot asked, stopping in front of him. He held out a bottle of water, his face tight with concern.

Donovan ignored the water. He stared at the red light, his voice a raw scrape. "They're still inside."

Eliot didn't push it. He just stood there, a silent presence in the sterile hallway.

Minutes ticked by. Each one felt like an hour. Donovan didn't move. He barely breathed. The image of Clementine falling, the sound of her body hitting the steps, played on a loop in his head.

Finally, the red light went off. The doors swung open. A doctor in blood-spattered scrubs stepped out. He pulled down his mask. His face was grave.

Donovan pushed off the wall, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Is she alive?"

"She's alive," the doctor said. "She sustained a significant concussion and severe bruising across her back and ribs. Thankfully, no fractures. But she's stable."

The relief that flooded Donovan was so intense his knees nearly buckled. But before he could speak, the doctor held up a hand.

"Mr. Bray," the doctor said, his voice heavy. "I'm sorry. Your wife was about six weeks pregnant. The trauma from the fall... we couldn't save the baby."

The words hit Donovan like a sledgehammer to the chest.

Pregnant.

The air vanished from the room. The white walls seemed to close in on him. He stared at the doctor, his mind refusing to process the word.

"What?" he breathed.

"Six weeks," the doctor repeated gently. "It's likely she didn't even know yet. I'm very sorry for your loss."

The doctor nodded once and walked away.

Donovan stood frozen. A baby. She was carrying his child. A tiny, defenseless thing that he hadn't even known existed until it was gone.

Eliot's hand landed on his shoulder. "Don. Don, look at me. This is a mess. You didn't know."

The touch broke the spell. Donovan's head snapped up. The shock on his face vanished, replaced instantly by a cold, hard mask. He couldn't show weakness. He couldn't show pain. Not to Eliot. Not to anyone. Pain was a vulnerability, and vulnerabilities were exploited.

He stepped back from Eliot's touch, his jaw clenching. When he spoke, his voice was flat, devoid of any emotion.

"Know what?" he said, his lip curling into a sneer. "It changes nothing. It was probably for the best."

Eliot stared at him, his eyes wide with disbelief. "What are you talking about? You just lost a child."

Donovan turned his back on the operating room doors. He couldn't look at them. If he looked at them, he would think of her lying on that table, bleeding out. He would think of the baby. And the mask would crack.

"The doctor just told me something else," Donovan said, keeping his voice low, making sure it carried in the quiet hallway. "The fall... it caused severe internal damage."

He paused. He didn't look at Eliot. He stared at the white wall, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"He said... the damage was extensive," Donovan lied, the words tasting like acid on his tongue. "She... she might not be able to carry a child again. It could be permanent."

It was a complete fabrication. The doctor had said no such thing. But the panic, the guilt, the terrifying surge of emotion that had threatened to drown him-he had to bury it. And the only way he knew how was to become the monster everyone expected him to be.

Eliot was silent. When Donovan finally glanced at him, his friend's face was pale, his expression a mix of horror and something that looked a lot like disgust.

"Permanent," Eliot repeated slowly, as if he couldn't believe the words were coming out of Donovan's mouth.

Down the hall, a door was pushed open. A nurse wheeled a gurney out of the recovery room. Clementine lay on it, her face as white as the sheets, her eyes closed.

Donovan watched her go by. He felt nothing. He had to feel nothing.

They moved her into a VIP suite. The door was left slightly ajar to allow the nurses to check on her.

Donovan stood outside the door. He took a deep breath, smoothing down his ruined jacket, and pushed the door open.

Clementine was awake. She was staring at the ceiling, her hands flat on the bed, her body perfectly still. Her eyes were open, but they weren't seeing the room. They were seeing the stairs. They were feeling the fall.

She had heard everything.

The walls of the VIP suite were thin. The moment Donovan had started talking in the hallway, his voice had carried through the gap in the door. She had heard the doctor. She had heard the word "pregnant." She had felt the tiny spark of hope that had been extinguished before she even knew it was there.

And then she had heard Donovan.

Permanent.

The word echoed in her skull, a death knell for the future she might have had. He had killed her baby. And then, like a final twist of the knife, he had casually dismissed her womanhood, her chance to ever be a mother, as a problem solved.

She didn't cry. The tears wouldn't come. The pain was too vast, too consuming, for tears. It was a cold, black void that had swallowed her whole.

Donovan walked to the side of the bed. He looked down at her, his face a mask of polite concern. "How are you feeling?"

Clementine turned her head slowly. She looked at him. Really looked at him. The man she had married. The man she had loved, once, in a foolish, desperate way. He was a stranger. He was a monster.

Her eyes were flat, empty, as lifeless as a doll's. "I want to be alone."

Donovan nodded, satisfied. He thought she was just tired. He thought she would get over it. He turned and walked out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

Clementine lay in the quiet room. The monitor beeped steadily beside her. The pain in her body was nothing compared to the ruin in her soul.

She closed her eyes. And in the darkness, she made a promise.

Donovan Bray, she thought, her mind a cold, hard diamond of resolve. You will pay for this. I will make you pay.