Every argument.
Every apology.
Every promise.
And finally, the last night.
His mother standing behind the mansion window.
Hannah soaked in rain.
Ethan holding photographs in his hand.
Photographs showing Hannah entering a hotel with another man.
Bank transfers.
Messages.
Evidence.
Perfect evidence.
“You used me.”
“I didn’t!”
“You expect me to believe all of this is fake?”
“Yes!”
“Why?”
“Because someone wants you to hate me!”
He remembered Hannah grabbing his coat.
He remembered pulling away.
And he remembered the look on her face when he said the sentence that had ended them.
“You were a mistake.”
Five years later, he felt those words cut deeper than any scalpel.
“Bleeding’s slowing,” the resident said.
Ethan blinked.
The room returned.
“Pressure improving.”
“Eighty-six over fifty-two.”
“Keep transfusing.”
Behind him came another sound.
Another cry.
Fainter than the first.
But there.
Baby B.
Alive.
Ethan lowered his head for one second.
