Waking Up

Chapter 2: Walking Up

White.

Everything was white.

Aveline's eyes fluttered open, squinting against the harsh brightness surrounding her. White ceiling. White walls. White sheets tucked tightly around her body.

Heaven?

The thought came unbidden, almost laughable. But then reality crashed down like a wave of ice water.

Heaven? Her? After everything she'd done?

After betraying Lucian, stealing from his company, choosing Damien over the man who'd tried to protect her—no. If there was any justice in the universe, she'd be somewhere much hotter and considerably less peaceful.

Hell, then?

But hell wouldn't have such pristine white walls. Hell wouldn't smell like antiseptic and—

Aveline's gaze drifted to the wall opposite her bed, landing on a simple desk calendar.

Her breath caught.

The date staring back at her made no sense. None at all.

That's... that's not possible.

She blinked hard, certain her eyes were playing tricks on her. The fire, the smoke inhalation, the head trauma—maybe she'd suffered brain damage. Maybe she was hallucinating.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The steady rhythm of a heart monitor drew her attention. Medical equipment surrounded her bed—an IV drip feeding clear liquid into her arm, sensors attached to her chest, a blood pressure cuff on her other arm.

A hospital. She was in a hospital.

But that date...

Aveline raised a trembling hand and pinched her forearm hard enough to leave a red mark.

Pain.

Sharp, immediate, undeniable pain.

"I'm alive," she whispered to the empty room. "I'm... alive?"

Her eyes snapped back to the calendar, and this time she really looked. Really read the date displayed in bold black numbers.

Three years ago.

No—not three years ago. This was THE day. The exact date from—

Memories crashed over her like a tsunami.

This is the day Lucian signed the divorce papers.

The recollection came in fragments, each one more damning than the last:

Standing in Lucian's study, screaming at him that she'd rather die than stay married to him one more day. His face, carved from stone, betraying nothing as she hurled her hatred at him like weapons.

The argument that had escalated beyond words. Her desperate need to be free, to be with Damien, to escape the suffocating cage of her marriage.

The knife she'd grabbed from the kitchen.

"If you won't divorce me, I'll end it myself!"

She'd meant it as a threat. Just another manipulation in a long line of manipulations. She'd threatened suicide before—countless times throughout their marriage—and someone always stopped her. Her parents. Her brothers. Lucian himself, his face never changing, never showing fear or concern or anything at all.

But that day, she'd gone too far.

The blade had bitten deep into her wrist. Deeper than she'd intended. Blood had poured out—so much blood—pooling on the marble floor of Lucian's pristine home.

She'd watched his face as she collapsed. Finally, finally, she'd seen emotion crack through that icy exterior.

Terror.

He'd caught her before she hit the ground, his hands immediately pressing against the wound, his voice—usually so controlled—breaking as he shouted for help.

The hospital. Surgery. A week-long coma.

And when she'd woken—in her original timeline—she'd learned three things:

One: She'd nearly died from blood loss.

Two: She'd been pregnant. Had been. Past tense. The blood loss, the trauma, the stress—she'd miscarried a baby she hadn't even known existed.

Three: Her family had begged Lucian to sign the divorce papers. Her parents, terrified of losing their daughter, had told him that the marriage was killing her. That if he loved her at all, he'd let her go.

And Lucian, seeing that his attempt to save her from Damien had backfired so catastrophically, had done exactly that.

He'd signed the papers while she was still unconscious. Filed them himself. Made sure everything was finalized before she woke up.

Given her the freedom she'd demanded at the cost of his own heart.

Aveline's hands flew to her stomach, pressing against the flat plane of her abdomen beneath the hospital gown.

The baby.

In her original timeline, the doctor had told her about the miscarriage with clinical detachment. But he'd said more than just that, hadn't he?

The memory surfaced, sharp and painful:

"Mrs. Blackwell, I'm sorry to inform you that this is your fourth miscarriage. Your body has sustained significant trauma—not just from this incident, but from the previous attempts at self-harm. The scarring, the stress, the repeated physical damage... I have to be honest with you. The likelihood of you carrying a pregnancy to term in the future is extremely low. You may not be able to have children at all."

Four times.

She'd been pregnant four times during her marriage to Lucian, and she'd lost every single one.

The first time, early in their marriage, she'd been so consumed with hatred and resentment that she'd barely registered the loss. Good riddance, she'd thought. One less tie to bind her to him.

The second time, she'd been in the middle of her emotional affair with Damien. She'd actually felt relieved when she miscarried, terrified that a baby would ruin her plans to leave Lucian.

The third time, she'd deliberately stressed herself, skipped meals, pushed her body to its limits—anything to avoid bringing Lucian's child into the world.

And this fourth time... she'd literally tried to kill herself, taking the baby with her.

Four chances at motherhood. Four innocent lives. All destroyed by her own selfishness and cruelty.

And the doctor had told her—in that clinical, matter-of-fact voice—that there likely wouldn't be a fifth chance. That she'd damaged her body so badly, so repeatedly, that her womb might never carry a child to term again.

At the time, she'd felt nothing. Maybe even relief that there would be no "accidents" to trap her in her marriage.

Now, the realization crushed her like a physical weight on her chest.

She'd destroyed not just her marriage, not just Lucian's love, but any chance of the family they could have had. Four babies. Four lives that could have been. Four children who would never draw breath, never laugh, never call her mother.

All because she'd been too blind, too selfish, too cruel to see what she had.

Tears burned in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks in hot, silent streams.

"No," she whispered brokenly, her voice cracking. "No, no, no—"

The door opened.

A middle-aged doctor entered, tablet in hand, his expression professional and slightly concerned. He stopped when he saw her awake, a practiced smile forming on his lips.

"Mrs. Blackwell, you're awake. That's excellent news." He moved to check the monitors, his fingers efficiently adjusting settings. "You've been in a coma for a week. Your body needed time to recover from the blood loss and trauma. But you're stable now, which is very good. We'll need to keep you for observation, of course. You'll need rest, plenty of fluids, and light foods at first. No solid meals until we're sure your system can handle—"

"Doctor." Aveline's voice was hoarse, desperate. She reached out and grabbed his wrist, making him pause mid-sentence, his eyes widening slightly at the intensity of her grip. "Doctor, am I... am I alive?"

He blinked at her, clearly taken aback. His expression shifted from professional courtesy to genuine concern. "Mrs. Blackwell, yes, of course you're alive. The surgery was successful. You're going to be fine. I know waking up after a coma can be disorienting, but you're safe now—"

"The baby," she interrupted, her voice breaking on the word. "Was there... did I...?"

Something shifted in the doctor's expression. Sympathy replaced the clinical detachment, but there was something else too—something heavier. Concern. Resignation. The look of a man who had to deliver news he knew would break someone's heart.