Clemen

instinctively ducked behind a potted palm, the rough leaves scratching my cheek. He hadn't recognized me, not really. J

e profound pain. I remembered his eyes on me at the party – distant, cold, dismissive. This was different. This was ge

muse, his fragile artist. And me? "Elana, you're so... practical. So grounded. Sometimes, a little too

e he once mentioned he admired "artistic sensitivity." I'd poured my soul into a landscape, a vibrant oil painting of the rolling hills near our childhood home, a place we'

proudly in his private study. Not mine. Never mine. My painting, my effort, my soul poured

the hospital corridor. A message from Casey: Where are you

nd drawn. He looked like he'd seen a ghost. "Casey? What'

Adam's apple bobbing. "Elana," he began, his voice a raspy whi

My illness, that was the only thin

. Different." He held out a piece of paper, his hand trembling. "Your HCG l

ight a few weeks ago, after Franco had humiliated me again. He' d come back, full of remorse, or so I' d thought.

regnant. A baby. Franco's baby. My world,

nd. The doctor's calm, professional voice explaining that the e

. "What are you going to do, Elana?" His eye

t as the ultrasound wand traced circles over my abdomen, a faint, rhythmic thump echoed through the room. A heartbeat. Tiny

and metallic. Casey was instantly there, pressing

now?" he asked, h

And he never will." My voice was firm, resolut