I hadn't stopped crying in the solitude of my own company since leaving Salem's clinic. Sunglasses had all but become a permanent feature, welding into the structure of my face to hide the redness and puffiness of my eyes.
It looked like I was having an allergic reaction.
The weekend had found me curled up in bed, sniffling my life away and trying not to sob as it all caught up to me.
The foetus healthy.
It was fine.
I couldn't—
"Madame, please eat something." Arin was knocking on the door, obviously worried. "You haven't left your bedroom in days…"
I buried my face into the pillow in my arms, letting it absorb the silent tears that leaked down my cheeks.
I couldn't do it, and I wasn't sure what was worse.
Being relieved that my destructive habits hadn't harmed the foetus or feeling like I'd betrayed my husband.
My dead husband. My dead husband who had died long before I'd conceived. My dead husband, who had taken a bullet to the head so I would live.
