Chapter 6

Dahlia

I wake up to white ceiling tiles and the smell of antiseptic.

My head feels like someone took a hammer to it. When I try to move, sharp pain shoots through my ribs and shoulder and I have to bite back a groan.

“Easy there.” A nurse appears beside the bed. “You’re awake. That’s good. How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck.”

She smiles sympathetically. “Close. You were in a multi-vehicle accident on Route 9. You’ve been unconscious for hours.”

I try to piece together what happened—the little girl in the road, the screech of tires, the impact, everything going black.

“You have a mild concussion and some bruising, but you’re very lucky. It could have been much worse.” She’s checking something on a monitor beside the bed. “I have to say you've been incredibly irresponsible with your health. The first trimester is the most vulnerable time for a pregnancy.”

"...What?"

"You're about five weeks pregnant. Sorry, you didn't know? Delayed periods, fatigue, mild nausea—none of those?"

Five weeks.

I stare at her, wondering if I'm hallucinating from the concussion. Yes. My period was late but I assumed it was stress, the endless pressure of work, of Marisol, of everything. The exhaustion I blamed on sleepless nights. The nausea I thought was from those horrible tonics Marisol forced on me...

A baby?

After the shock, a faint, almost imperceptible warmth swept across my icy heart.

There's a little life growing inside me... when I was almost in despair?

“We need you to sign some consent forms,” she continues gently. “And we’ll want to do an ultrasound to make sure everything is okay with the baby after the accident. Where's your husband? Or notify other family members to come over.”

Husband…

Reality crashes back in. My hand moves to my stomach instinctively. My first thought, despite everything, is to tell Sebastian.

I reach for my phone. The screen is cracked but it still works. I send a quick email to the company explaining I won't be in. Then I find Sebastian's number and dial.

A long, drawn-out wait. Once, twice… no answer. My heart sank. Perhaps he was busy? In a meeting?

The faint joy was quickly frozen by the cold reality. He didn't know I was here, didn't know what I had been through, and didn't even know… this child existed. Just as I struggled with whether to contact someone else, the voices of two nurses chatting drifted through the door:

"—did you see that man who just came in?"

"The one in the expensive suit? Oh my god. That's Sebastian Hawthorne—you know, Hawthorne Industries. I've seen him on TV."

My heart jumps.

Sebastian. He’s here! Someone must have told him and he came.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the pain shooting through my ribs. The IV line pulls and I yank it out without thinking, pressing my hand over the spot where blood wells up.

II have to get to him and tell him about the baby before the doctors do.

“He’s been talking to the doctors nonstop,” the other nurse says. “So worried about her.”

I stand on shaking legs and grab the bed rail to steady myself. My head spins but I force myself to move toward the door.

“Room 412,” the first nurse says. “He’s asking about the pregnancy, making sure she gets the best care. That’s real love right there.”

Wait. Room 412? That's not my room.

Pregnancy... of whom?

My hand goes to my stomach automatically and I’m already moving into the hallway, barefoot in my hospital gown.

Room 412 is just ahead. The door is partially open.

Sebastian is standing in the hallway talking to a doctor in a white coat and even from here I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand keeps running through his hair.

“—needs to avoid stress right now,” the doctor is saying. “Not in her condition.”

I move closer, my bare feet silent on the cold tile.

“I understand. What about the baby?”

“The fetus appears stable but we’re keeping her overnight for observation.”

I’m almost there, almost close enough to call out to him, when I see through the open door into room 412.

Arabella is sitting on the hospital bed. She’s in a hospital gown with an IV in her arm, her hair pulled back and her face pale without makeup.

The world stops.

Room 412. The pregnancy. His worry. His fear.

It's not for me.

The realization hits like a fist to the stomach and I actually stagger, catching myself against the wall. My vision blurs and I can’t tell if it’s from the concussion or the tears suddenly burning in my eyes.

“Make sure she gets whatever she needs,” Sebastian is saying to the doctor. “I don’t care what it costs.”

The doctor nods and walks away.

Sebastian disappears into room 412 and the door closes behind him.

I stand there in the hallway, one hand pressed against my own stomach where his baby is growing, watching him take care of someone else carrying his baby too.

My phone is still clutched in my other hand.

I dial his number with shaking fingers.

Through the door I hear his phone ring. I watch him step back out into the hallway and pull it from his pocket, glance at the screen.

“Hello?” He sounds distracted.

“Where are you?” My voice barely works.

“At the office. Why?” The lie comes so easily. "How did the emergency response go? Did they get back to you?"

The emergency response.

He doesn't know I was in an accident. Doesn't know I'm in the hospital. Doesn't know I almost died. Doesn't know I'm carrying his child. He only knows work is important. That his childhood sweetheart needs him.

"Dahlia?" His tone sharpens. "What is it? What's wrong with you now?"

Just as I opened my mouth, behind him, through the door, I hear it.

A soft voice. Feminine. Worried. "Seb?"

Sebastian glances back. Just for a second. Then he's speaking into the phone again, faster now.

“I’ll be home late. Don’t wait up.”

The line goes dead.

I watch him put his phone back in his pocket and walk into Arabella’s room.

***

They discharge me that evening with instructions to rest, follow up with my OB-GYN, and avoid strenuous activity.

The driver is waiting when I come out. He stands when he sees me, his face creased with worry.

“Ms Hawthorne. I’m so sorry about the accident. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” I’m not fine but what else is there to say?

He opens the door for me and I slide into the back seat, every movement sending pain through my battered body.

“I managed to save this from the car.” He hands me a slightly crushed white bakery box. “I thought you might want it.”

I take the box and set it on my lap. Through the clear plastic window I can see the chocolate ganache is smeared across one side. The white lettering legible.

I set the ruined cake box on the kitchen counter when we got home and stare at it for a long moment.

Then I pick up the box and walk to the trash can.

The lid opens with a soft click and I drop the cake inside and let the lid fall shut.

Then I go to the bedroom.

I should sleep. My whole body is screaming for rest. But every time I close my eyes I see Sebastian standing outside Arabella’s hospital room, hear his voice saying what about the baby, see him walk through that door to be with her instead of me.

The sound of the front door opening makes me go rigid.

Footsteps in the hallway. The bedroom door opens and I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing my breathing to stay slow and even.

Sebastian moves around the room quietly. I hear his watch hit the nightstand, the soft rustle of clothes being removed. The bathroom door closes and a moment later the shower turns on.

I lie there pretending to be asleep while he showers, while he brushes his teeth, while he goes through his entire nighttime routine like this is just another normal evening.

The bathroom door opens and the bed dips as he gets in beside me.

I keep my eyes closed and my breathing steady.

For a moment there’s nothing. Then I feel him shift closer.

His arm slides around my waist from behind, pulling me back against his chest. His body is warm and solid and familiar and for one stupid second I almost let myself sink into it.

“I know you’re awake,” he murmurs against my hair.

I don’t respond.

His hand splays across my stomach and I have to fight not to flinch because his baby is right there under his palm and he doesn’t even know it.

“Dahlia—”

His hand slides up my ribs and presses directly into the seatbelt bruise.

Pain explodes through my body and I cry out before I can stop myself, jerking away from him.

“What—” He pulls his hand back. “What’s wrong?”

I scramble to sit up, clutching my ribs, tears streaming down my face from the sudden agony.

He reaches for the lamp and light floods the room.

“Jesus, what happened to your face?” He’s staring at the bruise on my forehead, the one I’d almost forgotten about.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Dahlia, what—”

“I can’t do this anymore.”

He goes very still.

“Can’t do what?”

Can't do what?

Can't sit through another dinner while his mother wishes he'd married someone else.

Can't watch another woman send him pictures of her legs.

Can't work all night while he sends her home to rest.

Can't lie in a hospital bed alone while he holds her hand in the room next door.

Can't carry his baby while he takes care of someone else's.

“This. Us. Any of it.” My voice is shaking but the words keep coming. “I’m done, Sebastian.”

“You’re upset. You’re not thinking clearly.”

The leg photo. The bathroom. The dinner. The tonic. The all-nighter. The hospital. The lie.

The cake in the trash.

“I’m thinking clearly for the first time in three years.”

“Dahlia—”

“I want a divorce.”

The silence that follows is absolute.

He stares at me like I’ve just spoken a language he doesn’t understand.

“What did you just say?”

“I want a divorce.” My voice is steady now. Empty. “I’m done.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​