"Elowen, can you hear me?"

The voice pierced the heavy fog in my head.

"My stomach," I gasped.

A tearing sensation ripped through my lower abdomen. I curled inward, clutching the sterile white sheets.

"Keep still," a woman said.

I forced my eyes open. A doctor in blue scrubs stood at the foot of my bed. Her name tag read *Dr. Aris*.

"Where am I? Why does it feel like I'm being cut in half?"

"You're at City General," Dr. Aris said, her tone level but soft. "Paramedics brought you in two hours ago. You collapsed on the street."

"Give me something for the pain." I gritted my teeth. "Please."

"We already started an IV drip. It will kick in soon." She stepped closer, folding her hands over her clipboard. "Elowen, is there anyone we can call? A partner? Family?"

"My boyfriend," I choked out. "Jude. Call Jude."

"We need to discuss your condition first."

"Just tell me what's wrong with me."

Dr. Aris met my gaze. "You suffered a severe hemorrhage. I am incredibly sorry, Elowen. You lost the baby."

The room stopped spinning. Everything went dead silent.

"What?" I whispered.

"You were ten weeks pregnant. The miscarriage was already in progress when you arrived."

"No." I shook my head, pressing my palms against my stomach. "No, you're wrong. I just found out last week. I haven't even told him yet."

"The ultrasound confirmed it. There was no heartbeat."

"Check again!" I yelled.

"The procedure is over. We had to intervene to stop the bleeding."

Tears spilled over my cheeks. I stared at the blank white ceiling. The tiny life I had planned to surprise Jude with tonight—gone.

"I need my phone," I demanded.

"You need to rest."

"Give me my damn phone!"

Dr. Aris sighed, pointing to the plastic tray on the bedside table. "I will give you a few minutes. Press the call button if the pain worsens."

She walked out, the heavy door clicking shut behind her.

I lunged for the tray. My fingers fumbled with the screen. I found his contact. *Jude.*

I pressed call and held the speaker to my ear.

*Ring. Ring. Ring.*

"Pick up," I muttered. "Please, Jude, pick up."

*Hey, it's Jude. Leave a message.*

"Jude, it's Elowen," I said, my voice shaking. "I'm at City General. Something terrible happened. Please call me back immediately. I need you."

I hung up and dialed again.

Straight to voicemail.

"Why aren't you answering?" I slammed the phone against the mattress.

Right. The Super Bowl.

I grabbed the television remote from the side rail and hit the power button. The wall-mounted screen flared to life.

The volume was low, but the roar of the stadium was unmistakable. Confetti rained down in a violent storm of red and gold.

"And the clock runs out! The Falcons take the championship!" the announcer bellowed.

The camera panned across the field. Players jumped over each other, screaming and crying.

Then, the lens zoomed in.

Jude Lawson.

My secret boyfriend of two years. The man who promised me that once he won this ring, we wouldn't have to hide anymore. He stood in the center of the madness, hoisting the silver Lombardi trophy above his head. His face was smeared with sweat and turf, but his smile rivaled the stadium lights.

"You did it," I whispered, touching my flat, empty stomach. "You won."

I dialed his number a third time.

*Hey, it's Jude. Leave a message.*

"I'm watching you on TV," I cried into the receiver. "I lost our baby, Jude. I'm alone in a hospital bed. Look at your phone. Just look at it."

On the screen, a blonde woman pushed her way through the celebrating players. Serena Fox. The network’s top sideline reporter.

She shoved a microphone in Jude's face.

"Jude! You just threw the game-winning touchdown!" Serena shouted over the crowd noise. "How does it feel to be a champion?"

"Unreal!" Jude yelled back. "Best night of my life!"

"You promised your fans a surprise if you took home the trophy tonight. Care to share?"

I wiped my nose with the back of my hand. This was it. He was going to say my name. He was going to tell the world about the woman who stayed in the shadows, who cooked his meals, who nursed his injuries, who just lost his child.

"Yeah, I did promise," Jude said.

He didn't look at the camera. He looked at Serena.

His eyes dropped to her lips.

My heart stalled. "Jude, what are you doing?"

Jude wrapped his massive hand around the back of Serena's neck. He pulled her flush against his chest and smashed his mouth onto hers.

Right on live television. In front of millions of viewers.

Serena didn't push him away. She dropped the microphone. It dangled by its cord as she wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him back with practiced perfection.

The crowd erupted. The announcer chuckled over the broadcast. "Well, folks, looks like Jude Lawson is taking home more than just a trophy tonight!"

They broke apart. Serena’s cheeks were flushed, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips.

Jude grabbed the dangling microphone. "Meet my girl, everyone! We're making it official!"

"I love you, Jude!" Serena yelled into the mic.

"Love you too, baby."

The television remote slipped from my fingers. It hit the linoleum floor with a sharp crack.

My chest caved in. I couldn't draw oxygen. The tearing pain in my abdomen was nothing compared to the violent rupture in my chest.

Two years.

Two years of sneaking out of his house before dawn. Two years of deleting texts. Two years of believing his excuses. *My agent says a public relationship will ruin my draft stock. Just wait until I win the big one, El. Then it's just you and me.*

All lies.

He hadn't been protecting his career. He had been protecting his options.

I stared at the screen. Jude spun Serena around, laughing, completely oblivious to the fact that my world had just burned to ash.

My phone buzzed on the mattress.

I snatched it up. The screen lit up with a new text message.

It wasn't from Jude.

It was from an unknown number.

*Unknown: Did you enjoy the show, Elowen?*

I stared at the words, my thumbs frozen over the keyboard.

*Unknown: He’s mine now. If you ever try to contact him again, I’ll make sure the press finds out exactly how pathetic you really are.*

Another message popped up instantly, containing a photo.

I clicked it.

It was a picture of Jude sleeping in a hotel bed. Serena’s manicured hand rested on his bare chest. The timestamp was from last night. The night before the Super Bowl. The night he told me he was in solitary film study.

I threw the phone at the wall. It shattered into pieces, just like every promise he ever made me.

The hospital room door swung open.

I didn't turn around. "I said I want to be alone, Dr. Aris."

"I'm not the doctor."

The voice was deep. Masculine. Completely unfamiliar.

I whipped my head toward the door.

A man stood in the doorway, dressed in a sharp black suit. His dark eyes locked onto mine, taking in my tear-stained face and the broken phone on the floor.

"Who are you?" I demanded, pulling the blankets up to my chest.

He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

"Someone who hates Jude Lawson just as much as you do right now," he said smoothly. "And I have a proposition for you."

"I don't know you." I pulled the thin hospital blanket tighter against my chest.

"Julian Croft." He didn't offer a hand. He just watched me with flat, calculating eyes. "I represent a firm that specializes in crisis management. And right now, you are a crisis waiting to happen."

"Leave."

"Jude Lawson just humiliated you on national television. Serena Fox just sent you a photo from his hotel bed. You are a secret he plans to bury." Julian stepped closer to the bed. "I can give you the platform to destroy him."

"My baby just died." I glared at him. "I'm not playing your games."

Julian's expression didn't shift, but his voice dropped a fraction. "I know. And I am incredibly sorry for your loss. But grief turns to anger eventually."

"I said get out!" My voice cracked, raw and hollow.

Julian reached into his jacket. He set a matte black business card on the metal tray next to my bed.

"You have twenty-four hours before Serena Fox spins this entire narrative. Call me when you decide you want to fight back."

He turned and walked out.

Silence settled over the room, thick and suffocating.

Then, a sharp buzz vibrated against the linoleum floor.

My shattered phone.

I dragged myself to the edge of the mattress. Fire flared in my lower stomach. I gritted my teeth, sliding my bare feet onto the cold tiles, and scooped up the broken device.

The screen was a spiderweb of cracked glass. But through the jagged lines, a text message glowed brightly.

*Jude: Saw your 40 missed calls. Stop blowing up my phone. I’m out celebrating with the guys.*

I stared at the glowing letters. My thumb hovered over the screen.

Another text popped up instantly.

*Jude: The Serena kiss was just network PR. You know how this industry works. Stop being so dramatic. We’ll talk tomorrow when you calm down. Go to sleep.*

Dramatic.

A harsh, ugly laugh scraped its way up my throat. The sound echoed in the empty hospital room, sounding like a stranger.

My baby's heart had stopped beating. I was bleeding out on a sterile hospital mattress. I had just watched another woman claim the man I loved.

And he told me to go to sleep.

I pressed my thumb against the shattered glass. A sharp shard pierced my skin. A drop of dark red blood welled up, smearing across his name.

I didn't wipe it away. The physical sting grounded me.

I tapped the screen. *Contact Info.*

*Block Caller.*

A prompt popped up. *Are you sure you want to block Jude?*

"Yes," I whispered.

I opened Instagram. Searched his handle. *Block.*

Twitter. *Block.*

Snapchat. *Block.*

I erased every trace of Jude Lawson from my digital existence. Two years of secrets, deleted in less than two minutes.

Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway outside my room.

The door flew open, hitting the rubber wall stopper with a loud thud.

"Elowen!"

Mila stood in the doorway. Her hair was messy, her heavy winter jacket thrown hastily over a pajama shirt. She was panting, her eyes scanning the room until they locked onto me.

"Mila," I croaked.

She dropped her purse on the floor. Keys spilled out, clattering against the tiles, but she didn't look down. She rushed forward, kicking the door shut behind her.

"I saw the broadcast," Mila said, her voice shaking with rage. "I saw that bastard kiss Serena Fox on live TV. I drove here as fast as I could."

Mila grabbed my shoulders. Her grip was fierce, anchoring me to the bed. "Where is he? Tell me he’s not here. I swear to God, Elowen, I will break his throwing arm myself."

I looked at her familiar face. The mascara smudged under her eyes told me she had been crying for me on the drive over.

"He's not coming," I said.

"Good. He doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as you." Mila studied my face. Her anger faltered, replaced by deep concern. "El, why are you in a hospital gown? Did you faint again? You said you were just feeling dizzy this morning."

I opened my mouth to answer. My throat locked.

I looked down at my flat stomach. My hands trembled as I pressed them against the thin cotton fabric.

Mila followed my gaze. Her eyes widened.

"No," she breathed, shaking her head slowly. "Elowen, please tell me..."

"There was no heartbeat," I mouthed.

The words made it real. The finality of it slammed into my chest, heavier than a freight train.

Mila didn't ask another question. She didn't offer empty platitudes.

She climbed onto the narrow hospital bed and pulled me into her arms.

I buried my face in her shoulder. My body shook violently.

No sound came out. I couldn't scream. I couldn't wail. The grief was too massive, choking off my vocal cords entirely. I just cried, hot tears soaking into Mila's shirt, my nails digging into her back as if she were the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth.

Mila stroked my hair. "I've got you," she murmured. "I've got you, El. Let it out."

We stayed like that for a long time. The hospital machines beeped steadily in the background, a cruel reminder that time was still moving forward.

Slowly, the tears stopped. The crushing weight in my chest didn't leave, but it hardened. It turned into something sharp. Something cold.

I pulled away from Mila.

I wiped my raw eyes with the back of my hand.

My gaze drifted to the metal tray next to the bed.

Julian Croft's matte black business card sat there, mocking me in the fluorescent light.

"Mila," I said, my voice eerily calm.

"What is it, sweetie? Do you need water?"

"Pass me that card."

Mila frowned, reaching over and handing it to me. "Who is Julian Croft?"

I stared at the silver embossed lettering.

"He's the man who is going to help me destroy Jude Lawson."

"Sign here, and you are free to go." The nurse tapped the bottom of the discharge paperwork.

I grabbed the blue pen. My hand trembled, scratching a messy signature across the line.

Mila stood beside my wheelchair, holding a plastic bag containing my ruined clothes. "I pulled the car around to the east exit. Less crowded."

"Thank you," I muttered.

The ride down the elevator was silent. The wheelchair tires squeaked against the linoleum.

Once inside Mila's sedan, the heavy hospital doors disappeared behind us. I stared blankly at the dashboard, watching the rain hit the windshield.

"I'll swing by your apartment first," Mila said, putting the car in drive. "You need clean clothes, your toothbrush, maybe your favorite blanket."

"No." My voice cracked.

Mila hit the brakes. The car jerked to a stop at a red light. "El, you can't wear hospital scrubs forever. I just need to grab a few things."

"I am not going back there."

"Why not? Jude doesn't even have a key to that building."

I squeezed my eyes shut. The memory struck me, violent and sudden.

It hadn't just been a dizzy spell on the street.

"I didn't trip, Mila."

She turned in the driver's seat. "What do you mean?"

"The stairwell at my building," I whispered, gripping the edge of my seatbelt. "The elevator was broken. I took the stairs."

"And?"

"Someone was behind me." The phantom sensation of hands slamming into my shoulder blades made my stomach violently churn. "They shoved me. Hard."

Mila's jaw dropped. "Are you telling me someone pushed you down a flight of concrete stairs?"

"Yes."

"Did you see their face?"

I shook my head. "Just hands. A flash of bright red nail polish. Then I was falling."

The light turned green. Mila didn't move. Cars behind us blared their horns.

"I'll kill them," Mila snarled. "We are going to the police."

"With what proof?" I shot back. "There are no cameras in that stairwell. I don't know who it was. I have no face. No name."

"So we just do nothing?"

"Just drive me to your place. Please."

Mila’s guest bedroom smelled like lavender and dust.

She dropped a cardboard box onto the mattress. "I went to your place while you were in surgery. I packed everything that looked important."

"Thank you."

"I'll make tea," Mila said, hovering near the doorway. "Do you want anything to eat? I can order soup."

"I'm not hungry."

"You haven't eaten in twenty-four hours, El. You need your strength."

"Just the tea."

Mila sighed and backed out of the room, leaving the door cracked.

I pulled the flaps of the box open.

A framed polaroid sat right on top. Jude and me, smiling on a secluded beach in Mexico. His arms wrapped tight around my waist.

I picked up the frame. The glass felt cold against my palms.

"Liar," I said to the empty room.

I slammed the frame against the edge of the nightstand. The glass shattered, raining tiny shards onto the carpet.

I pulled the photo out and ripped it down the middle. Then I tore it again. And again. I dropped the glossy confetti into the metal trash bin beside the desk.

Next was the custom silver necklace he bought me for our one-year anniversary. It had a tiny 'J' pendant.

I yanked the chain until the metal links snapped apart, tossing it into the garbage.

Ticket stubs from his college games. Gone.

The oversized hoodie he left at my place. I grabbed a pair of fabric scissors from Mila's desk and cut it into unwearable shreds.

Every cut fueled the fire in my chest. I didn't cry. My tear ducts were completely dry.

Two hours later, Mila walked in with a mug of chamomile tea. She stopped, scanning the pile of destroyed memories.

"Feel better?" she asked, setting the mug on the nightstand.

"A little."

She glanced at my laptop screen. It was open on the bed.

"Elowen, close that." Mila reached for the computer.

I swatted her hand away. "I need to see it."

The internet was a relentless machine. Every major sports network, every gossip blog, every social media feed plastered their faces front and center.

*Jude Lawson and Serena Fox: Football's Golden Couple.*

*The Kiss That Broke the Internet.*

*Why Serena Fox is the Perfect Match for MVP Lawson.*

I scrolled through an article on a popular celebrity site.

"They are calling her his lucky charm," I read aloud, my tone flat. "They say she was his motivation to win the championship."

"It's all PR garbage," Mila said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Don't torture yourself."

"He fed me scraps in the dark for two years," I said, my eyes fixed on a high-definition photo of them holding the trophy. "And he gives her the entire world in one night."

"He is a coward."

I leaned closer to the screen. Something caught my eye.

"Mila, look at this."

"I don't want to look at his stupid face."

"Not him. Look at her."

I tapped the trackpad, zooming in on the photo. The image magnified, centering on Serena's hand resting against Jude's chest.

Her fingers were long and slender.

Her nails were painted a glossy, vibrant red.

The exact shade that flashed in my vision right before the hands shoved me down the concrete stairwell.

"It was her," I breathed, the realization freezing the blood in my veins.

Mila leaned over my shoulder, squinting at the screen. "You think Serena Fox pushed you?"

"She sent me a photo from his hotel bed while I was in the hospital. She knew about me. She knew who I was."

"That's a massive accusation, El. Millions of women wear red nail polish."

"It's not just red. It's a specific metallic crimson. I stared right at it when those hands shoved me." I pointed at the screen. "It was her."

Mila stood up, pacing the narrow bedroom. "If she did this, she's dangerous. You need to stay hidden here. We lock the doors. We don't post anything."

"No."

I reached into the pocket of my sweatpants and pulled out the matte black business card.

*Julian Croft. Crisis Management.*

"What are you doing?" Mila asked, her voice rising in panic.

"I'm not hiding." I grabbed my new prepaid phone from the mattress. "She took my child. She took my life. Now I am going to take hers."

I dialed the number on the card.

It rang twice.

"Croft," a deep voice answered.

"It's Elowen."

"I figured you would call," Julian said, the faint sound of typing echoing in the background. "Ready to burn his life to the ground?"

"Yes." I stared at the photo of Serena's red nails. "But I need you to do something else for me first."

"Name it."

"I need you to prove Serena Fox tried to murder me."

A heavy silence stretched across the line.

"I'll send a car," Julian finally said. "Be outside in ten minutes. And Elowen?"

"What?"

"Don't trust anyone. Not even the people sitting right next to you."

The line clicked dead.

I lowered the phone, my eyes shifting slowly toward Mila.