The hospital's fluorescent lights cast a sickly glow over everything, making even the fresh flowers Clare had brought look artificial. I'd been staring at the ceiling for hours, my mind racing with plans and possibilities. The baby—their baby—kicked inside me, a reminder of what I needed to do.
"Mrs. Castillo?" A soft voice broke through my thoughts. "I'm Maria Santos, your night nurse."
I turned to see a woman in her forties with kind eyes and exhausted shoulders. She carried a tray with another meal I wouldn't touch.
"Another premium dinner," she said, setting it down. "The chef must really care about you."
I smiled weakly. "He's very... thorough."
Maria glanced at the untouched breakfast and lunch trays still sitting in the corner. "You haven't eaten today?"
"Not much appetite," I admitted.
She nodded understandingly, then lowered her voice. "I brought you something else. From home."
From beneath her scrubs, she produced a small container of homemade soup. The rich aroma made my stomach growl despite everything.
"You made this?" I asked, surprised by her kindness.
"My grandmother's recipe," she said, helping me sit up. "Good for the soul."
As I took a spoonful, I noticed the dark circles under her eyes. "You look tired, Maria."
She sighed, glancing at the door before sitting in the chair beside my bed. "Double shift. Third this week."
"That must be difficult," I said, genuinely sympathetic. "Do you have children?"
"Two boys," she smiled. "And a husband who works security at the bank across town."
I took another spoonful, then pushed the hospital tray toward her. "Would you like this? It's going to waste otherwise."
Her eyes widened slightly. "That's premium food service. They'd notice if—"
"They never check," I assured her. "And I can't eat it anyway."
Something shifted in her expression—a mixture of gratitude and suspicion. But hunger won out. She quickly ate half the meal while I finished her soup.
"Thank you," she whispered. "My boys will appreciate this protein."
Over the next three days, Maria became my lifeline. Each night, she'd bring me small comforts from home while I shared my untouched meals with her. We spoke in hushed tones about everything except my condition.
On the fourth night, I finally broached the subject that mattered most.
"I've been wondering about the hospital layout," I said casually. "In case I need to walk somewhere when you're busy."
Maria hesitated, but after I mentioned my concern about emergency exits, she reluctantly drew me a rough map on a napkin.
"The morgue is in the basement," she whispered. "East wing. There's a service elevator that bypasses the main lobby."
"And security cameras?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
She pointed out blind spots and shift changes, unaware of how carefully I memorized every detail. By the time she left that night, I had everything I needed to plan my escape.
---
The next morning, Luke arrived with an unusual spring in his step.
"You're looking better," he said, checking his watch. "Clare will be pleased."
I nodded meekly, playing my part while my mind raced through my escape plan.
"I brought you something," he continued, pulling out my tablet. "Thought you might want some entertainment."
I reached for it gratefully, but as our fingers brushed, I saw something flash across his face—a momentary tightening of his jaw.
"Actually," he said, pulling it back. "Let me check if it's charged first."
He tapped the screen a few times, his expression darkening with each swipe. I knew immediately what he'd found—the browser history I'd forgotten to clear.
"Abortion clinic," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "Is that what you were searching for, Mya?"
My heart hammered against my ribs as I watched his polite mask slip away completely.
"Luke, I—"
"You ungrateful bitch," he hissed, his face contorting with rage. "After everything I've done for you?"
He grabbed my wrist, squeezing until I gasped in pain. "You think you can abort our child? My child?"
"Please," I whispered, tears burning behind my eyes.
He released me abruptly, stepping back as if remembering where he was. But the damage was done—the gentle husband facade had cracked beyond repair.
"You won't be needing this anymore," he said, pocketing the tablet. "Or any other electronics."
He strode to the door and spoke in low tones to someone outside. Through the gap, I caught sight of a man in a dark suit—not hospital security.
"Armed guards," Luke said when he returned, his voice eerily calm again. "Just a precaution."
He checked his watch once more. "And we're moving up Clare's press conference. Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" I echoed, my voice barely audible.
"Did you think I'd let you ruin this for us?" His smile didn't reach his eyes. "After all the planning?"
As he turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of something in his expression—not love or even desire, but possession. I wasn't his wife; I was his property.
And tomorrow, he would try to make me perform like a trained animal for Clare's benefit.
Unless I acted first.
