The fever hit that night.Maybe my body was too weak after the miscarriage, or maybe the weight of what I'd learned had finally crushed something inside me. Either way, I burned through the night in a haze, slipping in and out of consciousness while blood filled every dream.In one of them, a small child stood at the top of a staircase, drenched in red, watching me. I reached for him, but he drifted further away.A cool touch pressed against my forehead. I forced my eyes open and found someone half-kneeling beside the bed, wiping my face with a damp towel.In the dim light, Domenico Ferrante was still wearing the same black shirt from yesterday, his sleeves rolled to the elbows. He was a man who never had a hair out of place, but right now, he looked wrecked. His eyes were bloodshot, and dark stubble shadowed his jaw.Fever-reducing syringes and ice packs were scattered across the nightstand. A basin of water sat haphazardly by the foot of the bed, half of it soaked into his pant
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