He Yearned for My Love but He Was Too Late

Screech!

A Rolls Royce came to a sudden stop, but not before it hit me! I fell to the ground, hard. Scrapes and bruises start to show all over my body, but what alarmed me the most is the splatter of blood pooling around me as I lay in a supine state. What I suspected all along turned out to be true, after all. I was pregnant, but given the amount of blood I lost, I believe I just had a miscarriage.

In a daze, I peered at the flurry of activity inside the car. The driver, a woman in her twenties, looked familiar. Then it dawned on me. She is my boyfriend’s assistant. Next to her is Rocco Romano, my Italian boyfriend.

They both got out of the vehicle. My boyfriend seems to be in a daze. He was just standing there, looking down quizzically at the pool of blood on the pavement. His assistant, named Bianca Rossi, was fluttering her eyelashes at the policeman investigating the case.

The policemen let them go after she made a promise to sign some documents at the police station. She pulled at Rocco’s arm, insisting they needed to go as he still had to attend a very important meeting. Rocco took a long look at me, then reluctantly got in the vehicle.

I was near the entrance to the hospital, and it only took minutes for the attendants to rush me to the emergency room. After a series of tests, the doctor declared that I had a miscarriage.

I sat there, feeling utterly numb. Tears streamed down my face for the life that had once been a part of me. As I approached thirty, my longing for a child grew more desperate; I believed that having a baby would deepen my bond with Rocco.

When the doctor delivered the devastating news that my chances of conceiving again were slim, I cried out in anger and injustice. I cursed Bianca for her recklessness that had put me in this situation, and I hated Rocco for just standing there, seemingly powerless, and doing nothing to help me.

Rocco called me from New York as he flew there directly after my accident. I waited for him to ask me if I was alright, but all he did was talk about work and that it was freezing cold out there compared to Chicago. It was as if nothing had happened, as he did not mention my accident. Did he forget that I was in the hospital?

“Your bath’s getting cold.” Who was that? The voice sounded familiar. When the woman giggled, I realized it was none other than Bianca! She had been with him the entire time I was in the hospital, alone and afraid. I tried to convince myself that it was normal for an assistant to accompany her boss on work assignments, but my inner voice whispered that there are limits to employer-employee relationships—like preparing a bath for a man. I tried to banish the images from my mind, but they stuck stubbornly.

No one came to visit me at the hospital during the three days I was confined. No one came to hold my hand when my blood sample was extracted. The hospital staff looked at each other when, upon the date of my discharge, no one came to pick me up. Still reeling from the loss of blood and the aftereffects of medicines, I refused their help and hailed a taxi to go home to our apartment.

His car was left in the garage as he took a plane to New York. I inspected the hood, looking for signs of my accident. There it is! A broken headlight. I glanced inside the car, its interior dim due to the car’s tint. But something caught my eye—a flash of pink wedged in between the front seats.

Curiosity gripped me as I pulled open the car door, my breath hitching in my throat. My eyes widened at the sight before me. Oh my God! Is it what I think it is? My heart raced, pounding in my chest like a war drum. I reached down, trembling, and lifted up the soft fabric—my worst fears came crashing down.

There it was, tangled in the plush upholstery: delicate lace, a shimmering hue, and unmistakable for its shape! It’s something every woman dreads to find in her lover’s car—a silent testament of betrayal and infidelity!