“Cautiously optimistic,” I repeated.
The words felt too small for the life inside me.
A nurse entered quietly and checked the monitors. She smiled at me with the careful gentleness medical workers use when they know you have survived something terrible but are not allowed to ask how.
“Your baby is strong,” she said. “So are you.”
I wanted to believe her.
When she left, I looked back at Adrian. “Victor can’t know.”
“He won’t.”
“You don’t understand.” Panic rose so quickly it stole what little air I had. “He pushed me. He stood there and watched. If he finds out I survived—”
“He won’t,” Adrian repeated, firmer this time.
His certainty should have comforted me. Instead, it frightened me, because certainty was expensive. It belonged to men who owned skyscrapers, signatures, private aircraft, lawyers who could make doors open and records vanish.
I had married one kind of powerful man.
