Chapter 1

"I want the foreign correspondent position in the S-Region."

Ava Miller' s voice was steady, cutting through the quiet of her editor-in-chief's office.

David Chen, a man whose face was a permanent roadmap of deadlines and stress, looked up from his papers. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

"Ava, are you serious? That' s not an assignment, it's a death wish. The conflict there is escalating."

"I'm aware of the risks," Ava said, her gaze unwavering. "My file shows I've completed hostile environment training. I'm a good fit."

"A good fit for a desk, maybe. You're our best investigative journalist. Why throw that away for a war zone?" David pressed, his concern genuine.

Ava' s mind flashed back to last night. The smell of antiseptic, the cold silence of her apartment, the hollowness inside her that had nothing to do with hunger. It was the culmination of months, maybe years, of a slow, painful erosion.

The image of her husband, Mark Johnson, was vivid. Not the man she had married, the one whose laughter used to fill their small home, but the grim-faced detective who had become a stranger. A stranger whose world revolved around Sarah Hayes, the widow of his fallen partner.

Just last week, she had spent two days lining up at a specialty butcher to get the specific cut of pork Mark loved. She' d braised it for hours, filling the apartment with the rich, savory scent he once said was the smell of home.

She had waited, the food growing cold on the table.

He finally came home after midnight, his uniform rumpled. He didn't even glance at the table.

"I ate already," he said, his voice flat. "Sarah was feeling down. I took her to that Italian place she likes."

Ava had looked at the untouched meal, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. She didn't say a word. The silence was more damning than any fight.

Now, sitting in front of David, she felt a surge of resolve.

"I'm not throwing anything away," she told him. "I'm looking for a story that matters. My skills are perfect for this. I can get in, get the truth, and get out."

David sighed, a long, weary sound. He saw the look in her eyes, the one that said her mind was made up. It was the same look she had when she was about to break a big, dangerous story.

"You'll be embedded with a military press convoy. It' s not a tour group, Ava. It' s real."

"I know," she said.

He stared at her for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

"Alright. I'll approve the transfer. You leave in two weeks."

A wave of relief washed over Ava, so potent it almost made her dizzy. Two weeks. In two weeks, she would be free. Not just from a city, but from a life that was suffocating her.

She walked out of the office and back into the bustling newsroom, the noise fading into a dull hum. Freedom. The word tasted sweet.

That evening, she returned to the apartment she still shared with Mark. It felt less like a home and more like a beautifully decorated cage. She went straight to the kitchen to make a simple soup, something to soothe the dull ache in her stomach that had been her constant companion for days.

The front door opened. Mark was home, and he wasn't alone. Sarah Hayes followed him inside, her expression a careful mix of sorrow and fragility.

"Ava, honey," Sarah said, her voice soft. "Mark was just telling me you haven't been feeling well. you' re not overworking yourself, are you?"

Mark walked past Ava, taking a gallon of milk from the fridge. "Sarah needed some things from the store."

Ava watched as he set the grocery bag on the counter. Inside, she saw a box of expensive, imported chocolates and a small bouquet of freesias, Sarah' s favorite. Her own favorite flowers were tulips, a fact Mark seemed to have forgotten long ago.

Then she saw it. The pork she had bought, the one from the specialty butcher, was still in its wrapping, shoved to the back of the fridge. Next to it was a container of leftover pasta from an expensive restaurant.

A hot, sharp anger flared in her chest.

"Mark, we need to talk."

He turned, his expression already defensive. "What is it, Ava?"

Sarah stepped between them, a placating smile on her face. "Oh, let's not fight. Mark, you work so hard. Ava, you should understand."

"This is between my husband and me," Ava said, her voice dangerously low.

"She' s right, Sarah," Mark said, but his tone was impatient. He turned to Ava. "What's the problem now?"

"The problem," Ava said, her voice shaking slightly, "is that I spent two days getting that pork for you. I cooked for four hours. You didn't even have the decency to call."

"I was busy!" he snapped. "My partner's widow needed me. Is that so hard to understand? She' s alone, Ava. She has no one."

Ava remembered all the nights she had waited up for him, all the meals gone cold, all the anniversaries he' d forgotten because Sarah had a "bad day."

"And what am I, Mark? A roommate? A cook?"

"Don't be so dramatic," he scoffed.

"I'm trying to take care of you, Ava," Sarah said, her eyes welling up with tears. "I know how hard it is to be married to a detective. My David... he was the same. So dedicated."

Mark' s face softened as he looked at Sarah. He put a comforting arm around her shoulder. "It' s okay, Sarah. I' m here."

He looked back at Ava, his eyes cold. "You should be more like Sarah. More understanding. More generous."

Ava felt a chill spread through her. The man she loved was gone, replaced by this cold, cruel stranger.

A sudden, sharp pain seized her abdomen, so intense it stole her breath. She gasped, doubling over and clutching her stomach.

"Ava?" Mark' s voice had a flicker of concern, but it was quickly replaced by annoyance.

The pain was a hot blade twisting inside her. "Something's wrong," she choked out. "Mark, help me."

Sarah looked down at her, her expression unreadable. "It's probably just cramps, Ava. Maybe you should lie down."

"It's not cramps," Ava gritted out, sweat beading on her forehead. The pain was getting worse. "I need to go to the hospital."

Mark sighed, a sound of pure exasperation. "Ava, I just got home. Sarah is upset. Can't this wait?"

The pain was blinding. Ava couldn't believe what she was hearing. She looked up at his face, searching for any sign of the man she married. There was none.

She straightened up, her body screaming in protest, and grabbed her keys from the counter.

"Fine," she said, her voice a strained whisper. "I'll go by myself."

She stumbled out of the apartment, leaving them standing there in the warm, bright kitchen.

The hospital was a blur of fluorescent lights and hushed voices. After what felt like an eternity, a doctor with tired eyes came to her bedside.

"Mrs. Johnson," he said gently. "You're about seven weeks pregnant."

The words hit Ava like a physical blow. Pregnant.

"However," the doctor continued, his expression grave, "the pregnancy is unstable. There' s a significant risk to you if you continue. And... there are signs of a previous miscarriage that wasn' t properly treated, which is complicating things."

Ava' s mind reeled back two years. A similar, blinding pain. Mark had been on a critical case. He'd told her to take some painkillers and rest. She lost the baby alone in their bathroom. He came home three days later and held her, saying they could always try again. They never did.

Now, a new life was inside her, a fragile, flickering flame. A life with a father who prioritized another woman' s comfort over his own wife' s agony. A life she would have to raise alone, while he played the devoted guardian to his partner's widow.

The doctor was still talking about options, risks, and procedures. But Ava' s mind was clear. She couldn't bring a child into this broken home. She couldn't do it to the baby, and she couldn't do it to herself.

Tears streamed down her face, hot and silent. They weren't just for the child she was about to lose, but for the love that was already dead.

"I understand," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "Schedule the procedure."