Chapter 7

When I woke up, I was surrounded by stark white hospital walls, a dull ache throbbing deep in my abdomen.

My hand moved down instinctively, freezing when it met the flat, soft skin where my pregnant belly used to be.

Panic gripped my throat. I hammered the call button until a nurse rushed in, her expression filled with pity.

"You suffered a severe placental abruption," she said gently. "The baby didn't have a heartbeat by the time we found you. We managed to save your life, but the damage is permanent—you'll never be able to carry a child again."

A cleaner had discovered me at six in the morning on Christmas Day, left for dead on the floor of the club's bathroom.

Donovan had completely forgotten I existed, off partying with Chloe in a five-star hotel.

The nurse tried calling his number, but it went unanswered. When she dialed his second line, a breathy, irritated voice picked up.

"Donovan, it's her. She's ruining our Christmas."

Cold and furious, Donovan snapped through the phone.

"Elena, leave me alone. It's Christmas."

He hung up and blocked the hospital's number completely.

A total stranger had shown more care for me than the man I had been married to for seven years.

My voice cracked as I forced out the question that was haunting me.

"Was it a boy or a girl?"

The nurse gently squeezed my hand, her eyes full of sorrow.

"A perfect little girl."

I cried until I had no tears left, soaking my pillow with grief.

"I'm sorry, baby," I whispered. "Mommy couldn't protect you."

The first text message I sent from my new phone was short, sharp, and final.

[I want a divorce.]

He had killed our daughter, and he was going to pay for every single second of it.