Chapter 3: Eleven Weeks

My fingers tightened around the edge of the drafting table until the wood dug painfully into my palms.

The ultrasound photograph lay between us beneath the harsh fluorescent lights.

Neither of us moved.

Neither of us breathed.

Damien crossed the room in three long strides before I could react.

His hand shot forward.

The photograph disappeared from the desk.

"Damien..."

He ignored me.

His eyes scanned every inch of the faded image.

The tiny blurred shape.

The hospital logo.

The handwritten notes.

Finally...

His gaze stopped on the corner of the page.

11W.

Eleven weeks.

His thumb slowly brushed across the printed letters as though making sure they were real.

Then he turned the photograph over.

The blue hospital stamp was still visible despite the years.

Dr. Farrow Women's Clinic.

Three years ago.

Exactly three years.

The silence stretched so long that I could hear the faint humming of the ceiling lights.

Damien's jaw tightened.

The muscles beneath his skin flexed once.

Twice.

When he finally spoke, his voice was frighteningly calm.

"Whose is this?"

My throat tightened.

"Give it back."

"Whose child was it?"

"Damien..."

"Answer me."

His eyes finally met mine.

There was no warmth inside them.

Only years of suspicion demanding confirmation.

I slowly reached toward him.

"Please give it back."

He stepped away before my fingers could touch the photograph.

"I asked first."

I lowered my hand.

Every answer sitting inside my heart fought desperately to escape.

Not yet.

I couldn't tell him.

Not like this.

"It doesn't matter anymore," I whispered.

"It matters to me."

"No... it doesn't."

"Don't decide what matters to me."

His voice remained low.

Controlled.

That frightened me more than shouting ever could.

"Tell me whose child this was."

I closed my eyes.

The memories returned all at once.

Cold hospital walls.

Blood staining white tiles.

The doctor's trembling apology.

Nathaniel.

Elias.

Everything I'd buried.

"It was..."

The truth reached my lips.

Then stopped.

"An accident," I whispered.

"Don't ask."

The moment those words left my mouth, something changed inside Damien.

I watched it happen.

Recognition.

Then disappointment.

Then absolute certainty.

His expression became colder than I'd ever seen.

"An accident," he repeated quietly.

I remembered immediately.

Two years ago.

The hospital.

Our pre-marital health examination.

Someone had anonymously informed the doctor about my previous miscarriage.

Damien had confronted me outside the examination room while holding my medical file.

"Explain this," he'd demanded.

Back then...

I'd answered exactly the same way.

"It was an accident.

Don't ask."

He had looked at me for a long time that day.

Waiting.

Giving me every opportunity to tell him more.

I never did.

Tonight, hearing those same three words again, whatever small doubt still existed inside him disappeared completely.

He laughed once.

It wasn't amusement.

It sounded empty.

"I see," he murmured.

"Damien..."

"No."

He folded the ultrasound photo with deliberate care.

Once.

Twice.

Until it fit neatly inside his palm.

"You've protected him for three years."

"That's not what I'm doing."

"Then explain it."

I remained silent.

"Exactly."

He looked around the abandoned studio.

The empty shelves.

The covered machines.

The dust floating through the light.

"You know what disappoints me the most?"

I couldn't answer.

"I actually wanted to believe you tonight."

My heart sank.

"When Colette mentioned another man, I thought perhaps she'd exaggerated."

He smiled bitterly.

"Turns out she underestimated you."

"Stop."

"Why? Does the truth hurt?"

"You don't know the truth."

"Then tell me!"

His voice echoed through the studio for the first time.

It wasn't loud.

It was desperate.

"Tell me whose child it was!"

Tears burned behind my eyes.

"I can't."

"Or you won't?"

"Both."

For several seconds neither of us moved.

Then Damien slowly nodded.

Not because he understood.

Because he'd already made his decision.

"Fine."

He slipped the folded photograph into the inside pocket of his shirt.

"Damien, that's mine."

"Not anymore."

"Please..."

"If you're hiding the truth, then I deserve to keep the evidence."

"Give it back."

"No."

He turned toward the door.

"Damien."

His hand rested on the doorknob.

Without looking back, he spoke one final sentence.

"I spent two years convincing myself rumors weren't proof."

My breathing stopped.

"Tonight you proved they were."

The door opened.

Cold air drifted into the studio.

He walked away without another glance.

The heavy door closed behind him with a quiet click.

The sound echoed through the empty room like the end of something fragile.

I stood motionless beside my drafting table.

The place that had once been filled with sketches, gemstones, dreams, and laughter now felt unbearably empty.

The only proof that my child had ever existed was gone.

Taken by the one man who would never believe the truth behind it.

Outside the studio, Damien's footsteps slowly faded into the silence of the mansion.

I closed my eyes.

For the first time in years...

I realized there was nothing left for me to protect.