Seraphina POV:
Damian's composure shattered the moment he saw Isabella's horrified expression. He spun around, his gaze landing on me as I crumpled to the floor, my body shaking from pain and shock.
The mask of the concerned husband slammed into place. He scooped me into his arms and sprinted for the hospital across the street.
Voices swirled, a vortex of sound I couldn't escape. I fought to keep my eyes open, to anchor myself to the world. Through the haze, I heard Damian. His voice was frantic as he told the doctor I was four months pregnant, that they had to be careful with any medication.
A nurse lifted my shirt to assess the burns. Her gaze fell to my stomach, and her eyes widened. "There's no sign of pregnancy," she murmured, more to herself than to me.
Pain crested in a white-hot wave, but I pushed through it, my fingers clamping down on her arm. The strength in my grip seemed to startle her. "Please," I begged, my voice a raw, ragged whisper. "Keep this a secret. The baby... I lost it. I need to be the one to tell my husband."
The nurse's professional mask faltered. She looked from my desperate eyes to the closed door, a flicker of understanding—or maybe solidarity—in her gaze. It was a look that saw more than just a patient. It saw a woman in a trap. With a slow, deliberate nod, she sealed our pact.
I refused anesthetic when the doctor began to debride the wound. The pain was a starburst of agony, a cleansing fire that incinerated the last vestiges of the woman I once was. Consciousness frayed at the edges, but I welcomed the searing clarity of it. Sweat slicked my skin, plastering my hair to my forehead. This pain was real. This pain was mine.
Later, in the private room, Damian was a shadow hovering over me, his apologies a meaningless, endless litany.
"You moved so fast," I rasped, the words a double-edged sword I knew his self-absorption would never let him grasp.
He pressed his hand to mine. I responded by digging my nails into his palm until I felt skin break and the slick warmth of blood. He flinched, a sharp intake of breath, but didn't pull away. The small victory was my only solace as I drifted into an exhausted, pain-filled sleep.
I woke hours later to a room steeped in shadows and whispers. Isabella's silhouette was a slender cut-out by the door. I recognized her hushed, urgent tone first. "...get your hand treated," she was saying. "The one you burned for me."
"No," Damian's voice was a low murmur, thick with false concern. "I can't leave. If she wakes up and I'm not here, she'll be frantic."
Isabella's voice rose in frustration. "Go, Damian. Now."
He grabbed her hand, his voice dropping to a desperate plea. "Do you still have feelings for me?"
She snatched her hand back as if she'd been burned.
Even in the shadows, I could see it: a slow, triumphant smile spreading across his face. He'd gotten the reaction he wanted. "I won't push you," he said, his voice suddenly light, almost buoyant. "I'll go get this looked at." With a final, lingering look at her, he left.
The truth hit me with blinding clarity. This was his real love. Not a person, but the game itself. The desperate plea, the triumphant smile—that was the man he truly was.
My eyes met Isabella's across the dark room.
"Did you hear that?" she asked, her voice trembling.
I let my eyelids flutter shut, my breathing evening out into a convincing imitation of sleep. "Hear what?" I lied, my voice a frail whisper. I didn't let myself dwell on his words or her question. They were artifacts from a life that was already over.
Soon, none of this would matter.
