Chapter Two

~ Jennifer ~

The hospital was a blur of quiet voices and pitying looks.

“The report said it was a spontaneous miscarriage," Stanley said, his hand on mine a cold, dead weight.

Hot tears spilled down from my eyes when I remembered my early journey with Stanley.

People defined marriage as a blissful union of memories that never fade. But my own definition was cruel.

I was the pretty, well-bred accessory for Stanley Morgan, CEO of Morgan Holdings. The perfect wife to showcase at galas, the serene portrait of success to hang on his arm. In return, I got a life of gilded misery.

My opinions were "naive." My friends were "distractions." My art, once the vibrant core of my being, was a "messy hobby." He controlled the money, the social calendar, the very air I breathed, always with a chilling, condescending smile. He didn't allow me to pursue my career, he told me he could provide everything and extend it to my mom who lives in Albany in the state of Georgia with my two younger siblings.

Back in the hospital. A man in a white coat stood at the foot of my bed. “Jennifer,” he said. “I’m Dr. Evans. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe now. We had to perform a D&C procedure. There was… significant trauma. I’m so very sorry, but we couldn’t save the pregnancy.”

The words landed not like a blow, but like a final, sealing weight. I remember that moment I felt the warm, terrifying gush between my legs as Stanley’s foot connected to my belly. I had known it would result in a miscarriage. The tiny secret hope I’d been nursing for eight weeks was extinguished. My hand moved to my stomach, to the void where a future had been blossoming.

A single tear escaped, tracing a hot path through the dried blood on my face. I didn’t sob; the grief was too severe for any sound.

“Will my girl be ok?” Stanley asked, his voice dripping with false warmth. He reached for my hand. I flinched in a manner that made his eyes flash with a warning before he smoothed his expression back into pitiful concern.

Dr. Evans didn’t move. He looked from my battered face to Stanley’s. The air grew thick.

“Mr. Stanley,” Dr. Evans said. “Your wife has suffered a catastrophic physical trauma: multiple broken ribs, a fractured orbital bone, severe internal bruising, and a placental abruption caused by blunt force. She has lost the baby.”

“It’s a tragedy,” he sighed, shaking his head. “We’ve been under so much stress. Jen… she gets clumsy when she’s upset. You know how it is. Trips and falls.”

The lie was so audacious, so smooth, it hung in the air like poison. Trips and falls. Did I trip onto his fists? Fall onto his boot? I asked myself.

“Ok then, Dr Evan turned to me with a fainted smile. Try not to be clumsy next time while in your first trimester. He parted my shoulder, promising to be back in an hour time.

And that was the end of my pregnancy journey, a pain I will forever live to regret.

…………

The car ride home was a silent, rolling tomb on our way home after the doctor announce I was strong enough to go home. Stanley’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, the same knuckles that had, two weeks ago, been painted with my bl*od. He carried my bag into the house, and the door clicked shut behind us. The house was spotless. He had already cleaned up the mess, and there was no sign of the struggle, of the vase of roses shattered against the wall, or the dark stain in the room rug where I’d curled around the seizing pain in my belly.

He set the bag down and finally turned to me. “You’re home,” he said.

“Yes,” I whispered.

He took a step closer. He didn’t touch me. He just looked at me, his gaze traveling from the fading yellow bruise on my cheekbone down to my flat, empty stomach. “This didn’t have to happen,” he said. You know that, don’t you? If you’d just… listened. If you hadn’t been so hysterical.”

Tears welled in my eyes, hot and shameful. I looked away, toward the stairs, toward the room that would never be a nursery.

His hand shot out, not to hit me, but to grip my chin, forcing my face back to his. His touch was cold. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, Jennifer. This is a tragedy. For both of us. But we need to move forward. Together. No one needs to know the… messy details.”

He released my chin as if I were contaminated. “I’ll make you some tea,” he said. He walked into the kitchen, and I stood rooted to the spot, the ghost of his grip burning on my skin.

I waited until I heard the kettle click before I moved. I walked on unsteady legs to the landline phone in the hallway. I dialed Lucy’s number.

Lucy was my childhood friend, we’d grew up together in Albany in the state of Georgia before I moved down to Texas after my marriage to Stanley. She still reside there with my parents and two siblings.. She was the only one I confided in the midst of chaos. I get this solace confirm from her alone.

my fingers trembling so badly I dialed her line twice. She picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Lucy,” I breathed, the name a sob I choked back.

“Jen? Oh my God, Jen, are you okay? They said you were being discharged today. I’ve been so worried.”

I could hear Stanley moving in the kitchen, the clink of a spoon against a ceramic mug. I kept my voice low; in a desperate whisper, I replied, “I’m home.”

“How… how are you feeling?” Her voice was soft, layered with a grief I knew was for me, for the baby.

How was I feeling? How could I possibly articulate the void inside me? “It’s… quiet here,” I whispered, the words a code only she would understand.

“Jen,” she said. “What really happened? The hospital said it was a fall down the stairs.”

The tears came, silent and streaming down my face. “He pushed me,” I whispered, the words barely audible.

I heard the kettle whistle, stopping abruptly in the kitchen. Footsteps. He was coming. “I have to go Lucy,” I hissed into the phone. “He’s making tea.”

“Jen, get out. Come here. Come to my house. Now,” Lucy pleaded, her voice fierce and terrified.

“I can’t. Not yet.” My eyes darted toward the kitchen doorway.

It was the last, desperate detail I could give her. He cleaned the house. He erased the evidence. He was building the perfect alibi of a grieving husband.

“I love you,” Lucy whispered, understanding. “I’m here. I’m a witness. Remember that.”

“Thank you,” I breathed and hung up just as Stanley appeared in the hallway, holding a steaming mug.

Stanley looked at the phone, then at my tear-streaked face. His expression was unreadable. “Who was that?”

“Lucy,” I said, my voice miraculously steady. "Just telling her I was home. That I’m safe."

I took the mug he offered. Our fingers brushed. His hands were warm from the tea. Mine was ice cold. He smiled, a thin, terrible approximation of comfort.

“Good,” he said. “It’s important that people know you’re safe.”

And that moment, surrounded by the sterile cleanliness of my beautiful prison, with the ghost of my child between us and the secret now shared with my friend across town, my mind was already made up and one thing kept ringing in my mind "DESTRUCTION "