Rest Well

Chapter 8

Rose Pov

The room went quiet.

"The pregnancy. We did everything we could. But I'm afraid she lost it."

I looked at the nurse and made my face soft. As neutral as I could, something receiving.

"Thank you," I said quietly. "For telling me."

She touched my arm and said something gentle about grief taking time and how strong Serena had been through the whole ordeal. I nodded and remained still until she left and the door shut behind her.

Then I turned back to the bed.

Her face hadn't moved. Not once, through any of it. Just that same pale stillness. The slow rise and fall of her chest. The machine counted her heartbeats like it had nothing better to do.

I pulled in a breath and let it out slowly.

And then I smiled.

She lost it.

Both of them, gone. The woman and the child she was carrying. I had wanted both gone and the main threat — the baby, the one thing that would have tied Damien to her in ways I couldn't undo… was finally, cleanly, irreversibly gone.

The relief of it was physical. Something unwinding from the base of my spine all the way up.

Three years Serena Whitmore had tried and failed and grieved and tried again, and now at the worst possible moment, at the moment she should have had something left to hold onto, she had lost that too. I almost wanted to laugh. I pressed my lips together and swallowed it down.

"Well," I said softly.

I walked to the window. Looked at the city, and then I turned back.

She hadn't moved.

"You know what your problem always was?" I said lowly. Stating the obvious.

“You thought love was enough. And if you just kept showing up, and being patient, kept being good —" I tilted my head "— eventually, the universe would notice and reward you for it."

I walked back to the chair and sat down with my legs crossed.

"It doesn't work that way, Serena. The universe doesn't care how good you are. It doesn't keep score on your behalf." I looked at her hands — still, loose on the blanket, the left one bare where the ring used to sit.

"Damien didn't come back to me because I was better than you. He came back because I never pretended to be less than I was. Never made myself smaller so he could feel bigger." A pause. "You were always doing that. Lowlife, shrinking, and adjusting. Loving him like it was a sacrifice you were proud of." I almost laughed. "And what did that end up as? Look at you."

The monitor beeped.

Her chest rose and fell.

I leaned back and looked at the ceiling for a moment.

"The baby," I said, quieter now. Almost to myself. "I won't pretend I planned that part. I didn't." I looked back at her. "But I'm not sorry. I know I should be, or at least pretend to be. But we're past pretending now, aren't we. Just you and me." I spread my hands slightly. "You couldn't give it to him. And now you can't give it to anyone." I let that sit in the air between us. "There's a cleanness to that. Even you have to admit there's a cleanness to it."

I got nothing from her. Not a flicker or a tremor. The mask held so completely that for one mad second, I thought —

No. The doctor said. I had been right here the entire time. I stood up, smoothed my jacket, and picked up my bag from the floor.

I was done here. Damien would be back soon, and there was only so much of this room I could take. I looked at her one last time.

All those years, I thought. All that patience and grace and quiet sacrifice. The way she smiled at me like she had chosen to love me too. Like I was family, or any of it was real.

And this is where it ended. Pity.

A hospital bed and a machine keeping count of a life that had already run out of reasons.

"Goodbye, Serena," I said.

I meant it.

I turned to leave.

My hand was already on the cold metal hand door, almost free of this room and its smell and its sounds — when something stopped me.

Just a very specific, very quiet thought that arrived without warning and planted itself directly in the center of my chest.

She was still breathing.

Damaged, yes. Concussed, yes. Which means being kept alive when I can easily finish this.

I turned back and crossed back to the bed slowly. I stood over her. Looked at her face — the bruise spreading yellow and purple along her jaw, the closed eyes, the slack hands.

I reached for the pillow beside her head.

One hand on it. I'm just resting there, feeling the weight of it.

One movement and everything would be done.

My fingers curled into the fabric. And just as I raised it, my phone rang.

The sound echoed the room so completely that I stepped back before I even decided to.

Damien.

His name appeared on the screen. I stared at it for three full seconds. Then I picked it up.

"Hey." My voice came out steady. Warm even.

"I'm just leaving her room now."

His voice on the other end, low and tired: "I'm coming back up. Don't go yet. Wait for me downstairs."

"Of course," I said. "Take your time."

I hung up.

Looked at the pillow. At my hand, which I didn't remember uncurling.

Then I looked at her face one last time.

"You got lucky," I said quietly. "This time."

I picked up my bag and walked to the door.

"Either way," I said, without turning back. My voice dropped to something flat and final and entirely without performance.

"I hope you die."

I walked out into the white corridor and let the door click shut behind me.