The room was still, but the air was heavy with the echo of Ashlyn's scream. Carlos stood there, the pillow she had thrown clutched in his hand like a shield. He lowered it slowly, tossing it onto the bed.
He moved quickly, closing the distance between them before she could grab anything else. He caught her hands in his, gripping them tight.
"I'm sorry, my love," Carlos whispered. His voice was frantic, desperate. "We can always have another child. Don't be disheartened."
Ashlyn struggled against his grip. She pulled, she twisted, she tried to scratch him. But her strength was gone. The blood loss, the shock, the grief—it had drained her. After a few moments of furious fighting, her body went limp. Her hands slumped to her side, surrendering to his hold.
Carlos pulled her closer, his eyes darting to the door, ensuring it was still locked.
"No one must know about your miscarriage," Carlos spoke, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss.
