Chapter Two

Back home, the warmth of the mansion did little to thaw the chill that had settled in my bones. My cheek still throbbed, and the scratch beneath my eye was beginning to swell. The maid, Lydia, met us at the door, her eyes darting to my face before quickly looking away. She didn’t ask what happened, she never did.

  Instead, she quietly led me to the kitchen and placed a warm bowl of tonic on the marble counter.

  “Madam,” she said gently, “this was specially requested by Madam Clarisse. She said you should take it before resting. It will help… with your cycles.”

  Cycles. That was her polite way of saying contraception.

  I stared at the bowl, a thick, almost black liquid steaming faintly. Bitter roots, boiled herbs, and whatever else Richard’s mother believed would keep me from “accidentally ruining my health with a pregnancy.”

  I forced a small smile. “Thank you, Lydia.”

  She bowed her head and left me alone.

  The first sip turned my stomach. By the third, I felt the now-familiar nausea crawling up my throat. But I finished it. Just like I always did.

  Because if I didn’t, Richard would know. And if Richard knew, his mother would know. And if she knew… the tension would be unbearable.

  I rubbed my belly absently. There was nothing wrong with me. My uterus was perfectly healthy. It wasn’t the surgeries. It wasn’t my body. It was fear. Richard’s fear. His overprotectiveness. His insistence that my body was too fragile, too broken, too risky.

  And maybe… maybe it was starting to become true.

  When I came upstairs, he was already in our bedroom, seated at the edge of the bed in his robe, a glass of water in one hand and a familiar silver packet in the other.

  The pills.

  I paused in the doorway, searching his face.

  “Richard,” I said softly, “have you ever thought about… maybe we could just try? One time? Carefully. Monitored.”

  His jaw tightened. He didn’t look up. “Tessa.”

  “I’m just asking.”

  “I know what you’re asking. And I’m saying no.” He finally met my eyes, the weight in his stare heavy. “Your body is not ready for that kind of strain. We’ve talked about this.”

  “But I’m okay now. I haven’t had a rejection episode in almost a year—”

  “That doesn’t mean it won’t happen.” His voice dropped. “I won’t watch you go through that again.”

It wasn’t my body. It was fear. Richard’s fear. His overprotectiveness. His insistence that my body was too fragile, too broken, too risky.

After my eye transplant, Richard became obsessed with protecting me, especially from anything that could possibly trigger rejection. He’d spoken to countless doctors, researched all the risks. One even mentioned that the hormonal changes during pregnancy could interfere with my immune system and increase the chances of my body rejecting the donor organ.

From that day on, Richard wouldn’t even entertain the thought of having a child. He said it was for my sake. That he couldn’t bear the thought of losing me. I believed him.

  I swallowed the knot in my throat and took the packet from his hand. The pills were tiny. Almost insignificant. I washed it down with the water he gave me, no longer hungry for a fight.

  That night, we made love.

  There was nothing rushed or wild about it. Richard was gentle, reverent even. His fingers skimmed along the bandage near my eye, and his mouth found my lips with soft insistence. But it was when he was inside me, his rhythm unhurried, that I felt something deeper tugging at me... longing, perhaps, or heartbreak.

  Just before he climaxed, he kissed my eyelids one by one, like he always did.

  “They’re the most beautiful eyes in the world,” he murmured against my skin. “I’d give you a thousand more if it meant keeping you here with me.”

  I wanted to tell him that all I really wanted was a part of him growing inside of me. But I stayed quiet.

  He fell asleep quickly after, breathing slow and even beside me.

  I didn’t.

  Around 3 a.m., the cramps began. Violent, twisting, like something inside me was rejecting everything I’d forced it to accept. I shot up from the bed and rushed to the bathroom, barely making it to the sink before I threw up.

  Bile, tonic… and the faint taste of that tiny white pill.

  I stared at the mess for a long time, chest heaving, palms braced on the counter.

  Had I just undone the very thing Richard had tried so hard to enforce?

  Was it an accident?

  Or it was meant to happen?

  I rinsed my mouth, washed my face, and padded back toward the bedroom. The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of Richard’s phone on the nightstand. A message banner flickered across the screen.

  SKYLINE HOSPITAL: Miss Stacy has finally woken up. The surgery can proceed at any time.

  I froze.

  Who the hell was Miss Stacy?

  And what surgery?