Caroline POV
Pain wasn't just a sensation anymore. It was a universe.
I was floating in it, untethered.
Bright lights scorched my retinas.
"BP is crashing!" someone yelled, voice distorted by panic. "She's hemorrhaging internally!"
"We need blood! O-negative! Stat!"
I tried to speak. I tried to force my name past my lips.
"Mrs. Santos?" A young doctor's face swam into view above me. He looked terrified. "Stay with us."
"Blake..." I whispered. Not because I wanted him. But because he was a surgeon. He controlled the blood bank.
"We're paging him," the doctor said, pressing a mask to my face. "He's the on-call trauma lead for the region. He has the override codes for the shortage."
I drifted out.
I drifted back in.
The doctor was arguing on the phone, his knuckles white as he gripped the receiver.
"Dr. Santos, please! Her hematocrit is critical. We need the reserve units!"
Silence.
Then the doctor's face went deathly pale.
"But sir... it's your wife."
Silence again. A heavy, suffocating pause.
"Understood. Reserving the units for Patient Whitfield in case of shock."
The doctor hung up. He looked at the nurse. He looked sick.
"He refused," the doctor whispered, disbelief coloring his tone. "He said to keep the O-neg on standby for Ariana Whitfield. She has a laceration on her finger and anxiety."
"What about her?" the nurse demanded, pointing at me.
"Saline," the doctor said, his voice cracking. "Push fluids. Pray it's enough."
It wasn't enough.
I felt the cold creeping in.
Not from the rain. From the inside.
Then, I felt a cramping in my lower belly. A deep, twisting agony that had nothing to do with the truck.
"We're losing the fetal heartbeat," the nurse said softly.
Fetal heartbeat?
I blinked, trying to clear the fog.
"Pregnant?" I rasped.
"Eight weeks," the doctor said, tears swimming in his eyes. "Mrs. Santos... without the blood... the body prioritizes the vital organs. It's shunting flow away from the uterus."
I tried to scream.
I tried to tell them to take my heart instead.
But I had no air.
I felt the life slip away.
A tiny spark, extinguished because of a reserve order for a paper cut.
I passed out.
When I woke up, the room was silent.
I was alive.
But I was empty.
My hand went to my stomach. Flat. Hollow.
The young doctor stood by the door. He couldn't look me in the eye.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
"Did he come?" I asked. My voice was shards of broken glass.
"No," he said. "He's still with Ms. Whitfield. She's... she's sedated."
I reached for the bedside table.
My purse was there. Bridget had packed it.
I pulled out the ledger.
It was wet. Stained with mud and blood.
I opened it.
Minus five points.
Killed our child for her reserve.
Score: -5.
"Doctor," I said.
"Yes?"
"I need you to witness a signature."
I pulled out the separation papers.
I signed them. The pen tore through the damp paper.
"Call my housekeeper," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "Tell her I'm ready."
I didn't cry.
Tears were for people who had hope.
I was just a ghost leaving a haunted house.
