The sharp reek of disinfectant punched me in the throat.
I blinked up at a blinding white ceiling—cold, sterile, like snow that never melts.
A bunch of doctors hovered around my bed, whispering stuff I couldn't catch. All I heard was my own heartbeat, fast and panicky.
"Doctor..." My voice came out scratchy. "The baby... are they okay?"
Everything paused.
One doctor yanked down his mask. "You made it just in time. The baby's stable. If you’d got here a few minutes later, ... yeah."
Relief hit hard. I let out a shaky breath and clutched my belly.
Then the hallway outside blew up with noise.
I turned just in time to see a sea of doctors sprinting past the door.
A nurse nearby leaned in. "Don Morello really spoils his wife. She nicked her hand and he sent in a whole task force."
"Yep," someone else said. "He booked the entire floor. Wants her to 'rest peacefully.'"
Their voices faded as they walked off.
I closed my eyes. Tears slid down without a sound.
"So that was how it is, huh, Rafe? I'm your wife. And I'm lying here with an IV drip like a nobody, while she gets the VIP treatment." A bitter laugh caught in my throat.
I'd fought my whole family for Rafe. My mom practically begged me not to.
"Mia, mafia guys like Rafe? They're fantasy material. Don't expect him to stick to one woman."
But I'd ignored her. Thought Rafe was different.
Spoiler alert: he wasn't.
"I'm done begging for a love that never exists. From now on, it's me and my baby. That's it." I swore to myself.
As I stepped out of the hospital, guess who was outside? Rafe, carefully helping Carmela out of a car like she was royalty.
She spotted me and gave this blink-and-you-miss-it smirk before flipping on the fake surprise.
"Mia? You're here too?"
Sweet as syrup, loud enough for Rafe to hear every syllable.
"Don't get the wrong idea—Rafe's just here for my check-up. Not like I can waddle in alone."
Cue Rafe's jaw clench.
"Mia," he sighed, already playing the tired dad card, "I know you've been emotional. Just... don't overthink things, okay?"
I didn't answer.
Cold wind cut through the corridor like a slap.
Then he switched tones—gentle, coaxing, like I was five. "Let's go home. You can cook something for Carmela tonight. Let's just move on, alright?"
He even brushed a strand of hair from my face. The touch? Soft. The burn? Worse than all his cold shoulders combined.
I smiled. Barely. "Okay."
He took it as surrender.
But that "okay"? That was the sound of something snapping inside me.
I followed him to the car. Quiet. Robotic. The closeness I used to crave had turned into a slow, silent kind of abyss.
At home, I threw on an apron and headed to the kitchen.
Water boiled over. Steam blurred everything.
"Carmela doesn't eat seafood," he said gently from behind. "Make something light—she hasn't had much appetite. And skip the ginger, it makes her queasy."
He pulled out his phone, tapping away like her personal assistant, probably starting a "Carmela's Dietary Restrictions" spreadsheet.
I didn't reply. Just kept chopping.
Thock. Thock. Thock.
Same beat as my heart cracking open.
He used to lean on that doorway, watching me cook.
Back then, he'd say, "You shouldn't be in here. Your hands aren't made for grease."
Now? He didn't even remember saying it.
He must've finally felt the silence. Paused. Then looked at me.
Our eyes locked—for a second, I saw it. Guilt. Barely there.
He stepped in, arms wrapping around me. "Mia, I'm sorry. I've been distant. But don't worry—once Carmela has the baby, I'll ask her to leave. I promised my brother I'd look after her."
I lowered my head and said nothing.
Like moving her out would magically unbreak what he had shattered.
"Some things stay broken, no matter how sorry you are." Guess he'd never know this.
