Chapter 4

I took a taxi home, the city lights blurring past the window. The adrenaline from the gala began to fade, replaced by a deep, settled calm. I walked into the house, and for the first time, it didn't feel like his house. It felt like a temporary shelter I was about to leave. I went to my room-the guest room-and started sketching in my notepad, the charcoal feeling solid and real in my hand. Ideas, dormant for years, began to stir.

An hour later, I heard the front door slam open. Mark was home. But he wasn't alone. I heard Jessica's high-pitched laugh echo from the foyer. I stayed in my room, my hand tightening on my pencil. I heard them move into the living room, the sound of ice clinking in glasses. This was a new level of disrespect, bringing her into our home on the night I publicly walked out on him.

I focused on my sketch, trying to block them out. But a sharp cramp seized my abdomen, making me gasp. It was a dull, persistent pain I' d been trying to ignore for a few days, blaming it on stress. But this was different, sharper. I stood up, feeling a wave of dizziness.

I walked out of my room, needing a glass of water and some aspirin. They were on the couch, sitting close. Jessica had her shoes off, her feet tucked under her. Mark was swirling a glass of whiskey. He looked up as I entered, his face a mask of cold fury.

"There you are," he spat. "Do you have any idea how you embarrassed me tonight? Walking out like that. You made me look like a fool."

"I'm not feeling well, Mark," I said, my hand pressed against my stomach. The cramping was getting worse. "I'm going to take something and go to bed."

"Not feeling well?" he scoffed. "You seemed fine when you were making a scene. Jessica was just worried about you."

Jessica gave me a look of pure theatrical concern. "Sarah, you just look a little pale. Maybe you're just overwhelmed. Mark's life is very high-pressure."

The pain sharpened again, a stabbing sensation that stole my breath. I leaned against the doorframe, a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. "Mark, something's wrong," I whispered. "I think... I think you need to take me to the hospital."

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, stop being so dramatic. You're not getting out of this conversation with some fake illness. We are going to talk about your behavior tonight."

"I'm not faking," I said, my voice tight with pain and rising panic. I looked down and saw a dark stain spreading on the light fabric of my pants. My blood ran cold. "Mark, please."

My vision started to swim. The room tilted, the edges blurring to black. I was six weeks pregnant. A secret I had been holding close, a tiny, fragile hope that I hadn't even dared to share with him, terrified of how he would react. I had wanted to wait until I was free, to raise this child on my own, away from his suffocating influence.

"Mark," I gasped, my knees buckling. "The baby..."

He just stared at me, his expression a mixture of disbelief and annoyance. "The what? What are you talking about now? Are you making this up for attention?"

Jessica stood up, a look of disgust on her face. "Mark, she's clearly hysterical. Maybe you should just let her go to bed and sleep it off."

That was the last thing I heard before the world went black. I didn't lose a "life connection." I lost my child. I lost my baby because the man who was supposed to be my partner, the father of that baby, stood there and watched me collapse, more concerned with his wounded pride and the opinion of the woman sitting next to him than the life draining out of me.

When I woke up, the first thing I saw was the sterile white ceiling of a hospital room. The cramping was gone, replaced by a profound, hollow emptiness that was far worse than any physical pain. A doctor came in and explained what had happened. A miscarriage. He used gentle, clinical words, but they all meant the same thing. The baby was gone.

Later, a nurse told me that Mark had eventually called an ambulance, but only after Jessica had left. He had dropped me at the emergency room and left, saying he had an early meeting he couldn't miss.

Lying in that silent, empty room, I felt a grief so deep it was silent. And beneath the grief, a cold, hard resolve formed. He hadn't just humiliated me or controlled me. He had, through his colossal neglect and cruelty, taken something from me that could never be replaced. He hadn't just broken my heart or my spirit. He had broken my future. And for that, there would be no forgiveness. There would only be the consequences.