"Who's going to believe you? A woman who just lost a baby, clearly unstable, making wild accusations against her devoted husband?" He shakes his head sadly. "They'll think the grief has made you paranoid. Delusional, even." The picture he's painting is crystal clear: a prison of pity, locked with the key of public sympathy. "Alessa believed me." "Did she? Because she seemed pretty convinced by my explanation." His smile is gentle, loving, terrifying. "But even if she had doubts, what could she do? You're medically stable. You're going home with your husband. End of story." Hours pass. James dozes in his chair, his hand still possessively wrapped around mine. Every time I try to move, he stirs. Around midnight, Alessa returns. She moves quietly, checking my IV, adjusting my blankets. When she sees that James is asleep, she leans close. "Honey," she whispers, "I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me." I look at her, this stranger who might be my
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