CHAPTER 4

They wheeled me into surgery. Bright lights passed above me as the bed moved down the corridor. Someone asked me questions. Someone checked my IV. I answered none of them. I didn't ask for Sheriff. I didn't ask for anyone.

The anesthesiologist told me to count backward. "Ten." I closed my eyes. "Nine." Everything disappeared.

When I woke, my stomach hurt. But the pain wasn't the worst part. It was the emptiness.

A nurse checked my IV and adjusted my blanket. "Where are my babies?" I whispered.

She froze. Then she lowered her eyes. I already knew.

A doctor entered a few minutes later, carrying a thin folder. "Ms. Monroe, I'm sorry." I stared at him. "You lost the pregnancy."

My fingers tightened around the blanket. "Both?"

He nodded. "Both twins."

I looked away. He placed a sheet of paper on the table beside me. "These are the original results from this morning. They were completed before the accident. The pregnancy was confirmed, and the paternity test matched Sheriff Vance."

My eyes moved to the page. His name was there. Sheriff Vance. The father. There was no confusion anymore. No accusation. No false report. Just the truth. And it had come too late.

"The earlier file was falsified," the doctor continued. "We discovered the discrepancy after reviewing the original records."

I stared at the paper. "Thank you." My voice barely sounded like mine.

The doctor nodded and left. I didn't cry. I couldn't.

Hours later, the door opened again. Sheriff walked in. He stopped beside my bed. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then he placed two folders on the table. "A non-disclosure agreement," he said. "And divorce papers."

I looked at them. "The hospital has been instructed to keep this private. You'll receive a settlement."

I said nothing. "Your brother's treatment will continue for six months."

My eyes lifted. "And after six months?"

"The trust ends."

Of course. He had thought of everything. I picked up the pen. Sheriff watched me. "You should read them."

"I don't care."

I signed. One page. Then another. Then another. Rosalie Monroe. My signature became the only thing I could control.

When I finished, I put the pen down. Sheriff remained silent. I reached for my wedding ring. It took a little effort to pull it from my swollen finger. I held it between us. "This belonged to your wife."

His jaw tightened. I dropped the ring into the paper cup beside my bed. It hit the bottom with a quiet click. "I don't have a wife anymore, Sheriff," I said.

Something changed in his expression. "Rosalie—"

I looked directly at him. "You owe me nothing, Sheriff."

He stopped. "And I owe you even less."

His lips parted, but no words came. I pressed the call button. A nurse entered. "I want to leave."

"Ma'am, you need to stay for observation."

"No."

"Your blood pressure—"

"I'll sign whatever you need."

The nurse looked at Sheriff. He said nothing. I signed the discharge papers. My clothes were ruined, so I changed into the gray sweatpants and hospital shirt someone had left for me.

Before leaving, I stopped at the nurses' station. I placed the things Sheriff had given me on the counter. His credit cards. The car key. The phone. Everything that connected me to him. "Please give these back to him."

Then I walked away. I didn't wait for Sheriff.

Outside, I borrowed a stranger's phone. There was one number I still remembered. I dialed. It rang twice. "Vanguard Atelier."

My throat tightened. "It's Rosalie Monroe."

Silence. Then— "Rosalie?"

"Yes."

"Are you okay?"

"No." I looked back at the hospital doors. "But I'm done."

Another silence. "The project," I said. "I'm taking it."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"When can you start?"

"Tomorrow. Eight in the morning."

"Rosalie, you don't have to—"

"I'll see you tomorrow."

I ended the call. I handed the phone back. Then I started walking.

I didn't know what would happen tomorrow. I didn't know how I would survive the next week. I didn't even know how I would tell my brother what had happened. But I knew one thing. I wasn't going back. Not to Sheriff. Not to that house. Not to the woman who had destroyed everything and expected me to disappear quietly.

I kept walking. For the first time in three years, I wasn't walking toward my husband. I was walking toward my own life.