CHAPTER 2.

Sabrina’s POV.

“You’re not serious,” I whispered. My voice scraped against my throat, dry and coarse, as if I had swallowed a handful of sand. I couldn't even cry. The shock had severed the connection between my brain and my tear ducts. “Leon, tell me you’re joking.”

Leon didn’t look at me. He was adjusting his cufflinks, looking into the hallway mirror as if checking his appearance for a meeting, not ending our marriage.

“I’ve been seeing Zara for a while now,” he said. His tone was terrifyingly flat. No guilt. No stutter. “I saw her again when I went to London. We decided this was the right path.”

Zara.

The name landed like a physical blow. I hadn’t heard it in years, but I felt its weight instantly. His first love. The phantom that had haunted the corners of our marriage. The woman his mother never stopped praising—her elegance, her pedigree, and her womb.

“She’s the one who’s pregnant?” The question left me before I could stop it.

He finally turned to me. He nodded, a simple, sharp motion. “She’s due soon. In two months. I’ve made arrangements for her to come here.”

The world tilted on its axis. “In two months?”

My mind frantically did the math, and the result made me nauseous. “That means… you were with her while I was still praying over my last ultrasound. You were getting her pregnant while I was miscarrying your child?”

“She’s carrying a healthy baby, Sabrina,” he said, slicing through my pain with brutal logic. “She deserves to be with the father of her child.”

“I know,” I spat, the word laced with venom. “Because I'm pregnant. I’m pregnant right now, Leon. And that means nothing to you.”

Leon went still. For a second, I saw a flicker of something in his eyes—hesitation? Regret? But then he blinked, and it was gone, replaced by a cold exhaustion.

“That doesn’t change anything,” he said. “We both know how that always ends.”

I gripped the edge of the side table, my knuckles turning white. “You can’t mean that.”

“I do. Seven years, Sabrina. Seven years of hospitals, of tears, of watching you fall apart. I can’t survive it again. I won’t.”

“And you think I wanted any of it?” My voice cracked, rising into a jagged plea. “Do you think I liked losing them? I stayed through everything, Leon! When your business was nothing but debt, I sold my jewelry. When your anger filled this house, I walked on eggshells. And now, the moment I tell you we have another chance, you toss me aside for a woman you haven't seen in a decade?”

He checked his watch. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be. I’ve filed for divorce. The papers will arrive tomorrow. I want you to start packing.”

My chest tightened until breathing felt impossible. “You’re throwing me out?”

“I need space. Zara needs to settle in before the baby comes. I plan to marry her before the birth.”

He walked past me. He didn’t even flinch when his shoulder brushed mine. He grabbed his car keys from the bowl by the door and stepped out of the house like we were strangers who had just disagreed about the weather.

The door clicked shut. The sound was final.

My legs gave out. I sank to the floor, the cold marble biting into my skin. I didn't realize I was crying until I saw the dark spots forming on the front of my dress.

My phone vibrated on the floor beside me. A message from Cole. Leon’s best friend.

“I’m in town, you must have already been told by Tara. I’ll stop by tomorrow morning to say hello.”

Cole. The fixer. The one who always cleaned up the messes Leon left behind. The thought of him seeing me like this—discarded and broken—made my stomach churn. I couldn't face him.

I dialed the only other number I knew by heart. His mother.

“Sabrina?” She sounded surprised. “Leon just left here an hour ago.”

“He… he’s leaving me,” I choked out. “He’s marrying Zara.”

The line went dead silent.

“I’m pregnant, Mother,” I whispered. “And he doesn’t care.”

“Stay right there,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, unreadable register. “I’m coming over.”

*

When she arrived, she didn’t offer a hug. She looked at me with clinical concern, like a doctor inspecting a patient who had taken a turn for the worse.

“You look pale,” she said, setting her bag down. “Have you eaten?”

I shook my head. The thought of food was repulsive.

She went to the kitchen and returned twenty minutes later with a bowl of soup. The smell hit me instantly—earthy, herbal, and overpowering. It was the same soup she always made when I announced a pregnancy. The same soup I had eaten before the last three losses.

“I’m not hungry,” I said, turning my face away.

“Eat,” she commanded softly, pushing the bowl into my hands. “You need strength for the baby. It will cleanse your system.”

Cleanse. The word unsettled me.

Under her watchful gaze, I forced down a few spoonfuls. It tasted bitter. When I thanked her, she didn’t respond. She only stared at my stomach for a beat too long.

Afterward, she sat across from me, her hands clasped perfectly in her lap.

“I will talk to him,” she promised, though her eyes didn’t quite meet mine. “Leon is impulsive. But Zara… Zara is persistent.”

She left an hour later.

I crawled into bed, but sleep was impossible. My body felt heavy, wired with a strange, prickly heat. I kept my hand on my stomach, whispering silent prayers to the life inside, begging it to hold on.

But by 3:00 AM, the ache began.

It wasn't the dull pull of a normal pregnancy cramp. It was a sharp, twisting vice deep in my abdomen.

“No,” I whispered to myself. “Not again. Please, not again.” I tried to sit up, but the room swayed violently.

By morning, I couldn’t stand. I rolled out of bed, clawing at the sheets, sweat matting my hair to my forehead. I tried to call Leon. One ring. Two. Decline.

I dragged myself to the bathroom, curling into a ball on the cold tiles. The pain was blinding now, a white-hot fire tearing through me. I knew this feeling. I knew what was happening.

No. Not this time. Please, God, not this time.

But then I felt it. The warm, devastating soak of blood between my thighs.

A sob ripped from my throat, raw and animalistic. I was proving him right. I was losing everything.

Through the haze of pain, I heard the front door chime downstairs. Then, voices.

“Mrs. Sabrina?” It was the maid, her voice trembling as she knocked on the bedroom door. “There is a guest… Mr. Cole is—”

She pushed the door open and screamed.

I was fading fast, the edges of my vision turning black. The last thing I saw was the maid frantically pointing, and then a blur of movement as a figure sprinted into the room.

“Sabrina!”

The voice was deep, panicked, and familiar.

Cole dropped to his knees beside me, ignoring the blood, ignoring the mess.

“Call the hospital now,” he barked at the maid before gathering me into his arms. “Sabrina, look at me.”

“I’ve got you,” he breathed, his voice close to my ear as the darkness finally swallowed me whole. “I’ve got you.”