Part 2

Clair’s pov

I didn’t remember dropping to my knees outside that warehouse, but I must have — because suddenly I was on the ground, gravel digging into my skin, lungs seizing.

My hands shook uncontrollably as I ripped my phone from my purse. My thumb couldn’t seem to hit the numbers correctly. I kept mistyping. Kept trembling.

Finally — I thrust the phone to my ear.

It rang once.

Twice.

Then —

“Claire?”

His voice.

Deep.

Steady.

Dangerously familiar.

“R-Ryan—” I gasped. “Please… I need… help…”

“What happened?” His tone sharpened instantly. “Where are you?”

I looked around with wild, disoriented eyes — a row of abandoned industrial buildings, flickering streetlights, darkness swallowing everything.

“I… I don’t know—please—just come—”

A pause.

Then:

“Send me your location. I’m coming right now.”

He didn’t ask for details.

He didn’t question my tone.

He didn’t hesitate.

He just moved.

My vision blurred as I tapped the location share. My heart thudded unevenly — a messed-up rhythm, like it lost coordination with my lungs.

Minutes passed that felt like years.

I curled inward, clutching myself, fighting the feeling that everything inside me was unraveling.

I kept hearing Calloway’s voice.

“You denied me… and now you’ll pay.”

I pressed my palms to my ears — as if I could push the memory away, crush it into silence.

That’s when I saw headlights.

A car slowing.

Then suddenly — Ryan was there.

He slammed the car door and ran toward me.

“Claire!”

His hands were on me — on my arms, my face — checking, searching, anchoring.

“Where were you—what—what the hell—”

But I breathed out a sound that wasn’t quite a sob and not quite a word. It was something broken.

His face — normally unreadable — now showed pure alarm.

And before I could force a sentence out…

before I could even breathe properly…

the world tilted.

Blackened.

And vanished.

The next day, I woke up to a white light and a steady beeping.

Something pressing against my finger.

The sterile, unmistakable scent of disinfectant.

A hospital.

My throat was dry and raw; a dull ache pulsed behind my eyes. I blinked slowly, trying to remember how breathing worked.

Then I heard voices.

Footsteps.

Someone speaking near me.

“…she passed out from shock… possible dehydration… we’ll keep monitoring…”

And then —

“Can I see her?”

His voice.

Ryan.

Instant recognition made my heart twist with something complex — relief tangled with guilt, fear laced with longing.

A nurse murmured something in response.

Then — footsteps approached.

“Claire?”

I turned my head slowly.

He stood beside my bed — eyes tired, jaw clenched, anger simmering beneath concern.

“Hey,” I whispered.

“ You really terrified me,” he murmured.

My throat tightened. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

His expression flickered — the faintest ghost of a smile. “You called the right person.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then — the doctor entered, clearing his throat.

“Ms. Lawson? We have some results to discuss.”

I frowned. “Results?”

Ryan straightened slightly.

The doctor continued, professional and steady:

“You’re in stable condition… but — you’re pregnant.”

The word hung in the air like a bell toll.

I blinked.

Confusion hit first.

Then disbelief.

I already suspected but after it was confirmed I was scared.

The doctor checked the chart. “About six to seven weeks.”

My mind raced — like wildfire.

Six weeks ago…

I was with—

No.

I forced my voice out:

“It’s from my ex-husband.”

The words were brittle.

Hard-edged.

Automatic.

Ryan froze.

His jaw ticked.

But he said nothing.

I looked at the doctor, eyes burning.

“I want it terminated.”

Ryan inhaled sharply — as if struck.

The doctor didn’t react emotionally. “We can discuss your options — but first I’d like you to speak with our counselor. Trauma and stress can impact decision-making — especially after an assault attempt.”

The word attempt made bile rise in my throat.

I swallowed hard.

“Just… not now,” I whispered. “Please.”

The doctor nodded and left.

Ryan didn’t.

He stood there — silent, intense, unmoving — staring at me like he was unraveling from the inside.

Finally he spoke — voice quiet.

“You’re pregnant.”

I stared at the ceiling. “Apparently.”

“And you’re sure it’s from your ex-husband?”

I turned my face toward the wall.

“Yes.”

Silence.

Long.

Heavy.

Stifling.

Then Ryan exhaled slowly — and I recognized that tone — the one he used when trying to keep control from slipping.

“Claire,” he said softly. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

My eyes burned.

“I’m not lying,” I whispered.

We both knew I was.

But he didn’t push — not yet.

Instead he said:

“I’ve already spoken to the police.”

My heartbeat stumbled. “You… reported it?”

“I gave them everything. The warehouse location. The vehicle description. Your statement can be taken when you’re ready — but they’ve already arrested Calloway.”

Shock pulsed through me.

“They… they caught him?”

Ryan nodded. “He’s currently under charges for abduction and an attempted sexual violation”.

A trembling breath left me — half relief, half aftershock.

“He’s going to prison?” I whispered.

Ryan’s eyes darkened with certainty.

“Yes.”

For a moment I let the words sink in.

Calloway.

Behind bars.

Not stalking me.

Not watching.

Not waiting.

Something inside me that had been clenched for months… loosened. Just a little.

Ryan dragged a chair closer to the bed and sat, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

His voice softened.

“Claire… when you called me tonight… you sounded terrified. I thought— I thought maybe I’d lose you.”

I closed my eyes.

“You weren’t supposed to care,” I murmured.

“I do.”

My voice trembled.

“You’re married to my daughter.”

His reply was immediate.

“And I’m in love with you.”

The words struck like a blow.

I shook my head — helpless.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why? Because it’s wrong?” He leaned closer. “It is wrong. But it’s also true.”

I clenched the sheets in my fists.

“I shouldn’t even exist in your life.”

“You exist here,” he said, touching his chest.

His hand hovered — inches from mine.

Not touching.

But close.

Too close.

Then another voice entered — the counselor, gentle but firm. I hadn’t even noticed her approach.

“Ms. Lawson? May I speak with you privately?”

Ryan stood reluctantly.

“I’ll be right outside.”

As he left, the counselor pulled a chair up, her tone soft.

“You’ve experienced severe trauma. The brain goes into survival mode — and many women react with denial, panic, or rejection of anything that threatens their sense of control… including a pregnancy.”

My throat thickened.

I didn’t want warmth.

Or understanding.

I wanted oblivion.

“I can’t have this baby.”

My voice shook.

“It would ruin everything.”

She nodded empathetically.

“Can I ask… what makes you think that?”

I stared at my hands.

At the faint bruising around my wrist from Calloway’s grip.

At the IV tube taped to my skin.

And the truth rose — raw and terrifying.

“Because I don’t know what kind of monster I’ll be if I keep it.”

The counselor shook her head.

“You are not a monster. You are a survivor.”

I didn’t reply.

Couldn’t.

She continued gently:

“You don’t have to decide right now. Let your mind settle. Let your body recover.”

My voice was barely audible.

“And what if I never manage to forgive myself… for everything that occurred?”

She whispered:

“Then we’ll work through that too.”

Something in her tone — so steady, so sure — made my breathing ease.

Just enough.

Ryan re-entered later — after I’d cried silently into the thin hospital pillow — and he didn’t ask questions.

He just sat beside me in the darkened room.

He thought I was asleep — but I heard the words he spoke softly, to himself more than to me:

“I’ll protect you. Even from yourself.”

I should have hated that.

Should have rejected it.

But instead — it settled deep inside me like a fragile lifeline.

The following day,

The doctor confirmed:

Calloway had been denied bail.

He would stand trial.

And the police wanted a full statement from me when I was stabilized — not today.

The hospital would keep me for observation.

Ryan insisted on staying.

At one point I told him:

“You don’t have to babysit me.”

He stared at me — unblinking.

“Try stopping me.”

That afternoon, as sunlight filtered into the room…

Ryan finally asked:

“Claire. If the baby is mine… will you keep lying?”

I looked up slowly.

And for a moment — I let the truth hover in the air.

Then I answered, voice fragile:

“Yes.”

He didn’t flinch.

Instead he shook his head — not in anger… but in profound sadness.

“Then I’ll carry the truth alone.”