Chapter 2

My daughter kept sucking on her tiny fist, clearly starving.

All I could do was force myself to chew the stale bread, washing it down with water as fast as I could. I ate too quickly, and the dry crust scraped my throat raw.

I forced down piece after piece. The bread expanded in my stomach, making me want to vomit.

Even so, the milk wouldn't come.

My daughter began to cry in my arms, her breaths growing weaker.

"Here, dear. Give this to the baby."

The elderly woman in the bed across from me held out a steaming bowl of porridge.

The tenderness and kindness in her eyes made my throat tighten.

I thanked her quietly.

She looked at me and couldn't help asking.

"Where's the baby's father? Why isn't he here taking care of you?"

I lowered my eyes. I couldn't say it.

Her father was right next door, looking after someone else's child.

I blew on the porridge again and again, then carefully brought it to my daughter's lips.

"Don't feed her that!"

Adrian strode over and knocked the bowl from my hands.

Scalding liquid splashed across my legs. I flinched and instinctively pulled the baby away.

His eyes were cold as a blade.

"Do you have any idea she can't digest that yet?"

He frowned at my sorry state, his tone dripping with irritation.

"Have you really gotten so fragile you can't even hold a bowl?"

That look was unmistakable. He thought I was playing the victim.

I bit my lip, raised my head, and forced the heat back behind my eyes.

"Then what am I supposed to do? She's hungry. I only had a few pieces of bread. I have no milk."

Adrian's brow furrowed.

"Are you blaming me?"

"You're the one who never eats properly. Of course your nutrition can't keep up."

As if I didn't want to eat.

I couldn't.

The morning sickness was so severe that everything I put down came right back up. I thought Adrian knew.

After all, he'd once had someone compile a thick prenatal observation journal.

At the time, my heart had been so full. I'd believed he was recording my every reaction, holding each detail close.

Now I realized that all those notes that never quite matched my symptoms probably had nothing to do with me at all.

They were about Ava.

And I'd been the fool, reading them over and over like love letters.

Tears fell without warning.

Adrian pressed his thin lips together and finally softened his tone. He reached out and wiped my tears away, the motion stiff and mechanical.

"This is a hospital. I can't be seen doting on you. People will say I'm abusing my power."

"I'll go get you a bottle of milk. But this is the last time."

He left for a little while and came back quickly, holding out a baby bottle.

"Ava made it herself. Go ahead."

The bottle was old, like it had been dug out of some forgotten corner.

But I had no choice.

I tested the temperature on my wrist and gently fed it to my daughter.

She sucked greedily twice, then burst into a wail. The milk she spit up reeked of something sour and spoiled.

I scrambled to wipe the residue from her mouth with a cloth.

Adrian rubbed his nose, instinctively making excuses for Ava.

"She probably grabbed the wrong one. She didn't mean to."

"Besides, babies aren't as fragile as you think. Don't be so dramatic."

His careless words had barely landed when Ava's soft, helpless voice drifted over from next door.

"Adrian, the baby suddenly won't nurse. What do I do?"

Adrian turned and left immediately, ordering the pediatrician to get over there at once.

Every self-righteous rule he'd just lectured me about was thrown right out the window.

So he could worry after all.

Just not about us.

I let my head drop, pressing my face against my daughter's soft cheek.

The elderly woman came over and sighed.

"Sweetheart, a man like that isn't worth keeping."

I nodded.

"I know. I'm done."