Her breathing was easy, natural, and calm.
I sat in a armchair beside her, holding her warm hand in mine.
Her eyes fluttered open slowly.
She blinked against the soft morning light, turning her head toward me.
“Adrian?” she whispered, her voice raspy from the breathing tubes that had been removed twenty-four hours ago.
“I’m here, my love,” I said softly, lifting her fingers to my lips and pressing a gentle kiss against her knuckles.
“I’m right here.”
Her eyes filled with sudden, overwhelming panic as memory flooded back into her mind.
Her free hand immediately reached down toward her stomach.
“The baby…” she sobbed, tears spilling over her cheeks.
“Adrian… they… they hit me… the studio… my brothers… the baby…”
“Shh,” I whispered, leaning in and placing my hand gently over hers.
“Listen to me, Clara.
Look at me.”
She met my eyes, her heart beating wildly against the chest monitors.
“Our daughter is alive,” I said softly.
Clara froze.
She stared at me, uncomprehending.
