The headline won't stop replaying in my mind.
Was It More Than a Miscarriage?
More than.
What does that even mean?
The article is vague.
Speculative.
Cruel.
It hints at negligence.
Corporate stress.
"Sources close to the couple."
Sources.
I don't remember much.
But I remember one thing clearly now.
Marcus had access to everything.
My calendar.
My hospital schedule.
My breakdowns.
My anger.
If someone wanted to twist my pain into leverage—
He would know how.
Adrian is already on the phone when I step into the hallway.
His voice is low.
Cold.
Controlled.
"Pull the IP trace."
A pause.
"Now."
He ends the call when he sees me.
"You shouldn't read it again."
"I'm not."
"You are."
I am.
My fingers are still clenched around my phone.
"Who leaked it?" I ask.
"I'll find out."
"That's not what I asked."
His jaw tightens slightly.
"I don't know yet."
The honesty is immediate.
Efficient.
But something in me has already decided.
"I do."
His eyes sharpen.
"Alessa."
"It's Marcus."
"Don't jump to that."
"He's the only one who knew how broken I was."
"So did I."
"That's different."
"Why?"
"Because you wouldn't use it."
His gaze holds mine.
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do."
The certainty surprises both of us.
Silence.
Then—
"I'm calling him."
Adrian's expression hardens instantly.
"No."
"You don't get to decide that."
"He does not get access to you when you're vulnerable."
"I'm not vulnerable."
"You just relived losing our child."
My throat tightens.
"I'm not hiding behind you."
"I'm not hiding you."
The tension spikes.
Sharp.
Real.
"You think I can't handle him?" I ask quietly.
His answer is immediate.
"I think he knows exactly how to handle you."
The words sting.
"Meaning?"
"He knows where you bend."
The accusation sits between us.
"Are you saying I'm weak?"
"No."
"Then what are you saying?"
His voice lowers.
"I'm saying you're soft where he's strategic."
I step closer.
"And you're not strategic?"
"I am."
"Then trust me."
A beat.
Heavy.
Measured.
"You want to call him?" he asks quietly.
"Yes."
"Do it here."
My pulse jumps.
"You don't trust me alone?"
"I don't trust him."
There's a difference.
I see it now.
Fine.
I dial Marcus.
The number feels familiar under my fingers.
Too familiar.
It rings twice.
Three times.
Then—
"Alessa?"
His voice.
Smooth.
Warm.
Instantly intimate.
My stomach twists.
"You sound surprised," I say evenly.
"I didn't expect to hear from you tonight."
"Why?"
A pause.
"Because of the article."
There it is.
Straight to it.
No pretending.
"You've seen it," I say.
"Of course."
"And?"
"And it's disgusting."
The word sounds rehearsed.
Controlled.
"Is it?" I ask softly.
"Yes."
"You seem calm."
"I don't give attention to tabloids."
"It's not a tabloid."
Silence.
A shift.
"You think I leaked it."
Not a question.
A statement.
"I didn't say that."
"You're thinking it."
My fingers tighten around the phone.
"You had access."
"So did your husband."
The word husband lands pointedly.
"Adrian wouldn't."
"You don't remember what Adrian would or wouldn't do."
The hit is precise.
Calculated.
My chest tightens.
"I remember enough," I say.
"Do you?" he murmurs.
The softness in his tone feels different now.
Not comforting.
Manipulative.
"You're upset," he continues gently.
"You shouldn't be dealing with this alone."
"I'm not alone."
A pause.
"Is he there?"
I don't answer.
He knows.
"Of course he is."
There's something under his voice now.
Not jealousy.
Ownership.
"You don't get to protect me anymore," I say quietly.
"Protect you?"
"You think I don't see it?"
"See what?"
"You positioning yourself as the safe one."
"I was safe."
The confidence in that answer makes my pulse spike.
"You forwarded my designs."
"It was business."
"You called me dramatic."
"You were emotional."
My breath sharpens.
There it is.
That word again.
Emotional.
"I lost a child," I say, voice shaking slightly.
"And you used my vulnerability as leverage."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?"
"You're rewriting the past."
"No," I whisper. "I'm remembering it."
Silence stretches.
Then—
"Adrian is feeding you this," Marcus says quietly.
My chest tightens.
"He showed me proof."
"Of what?"
"Of who you are."
A beat.
Long.
Cold.
"You're choosing him," Marcus says.
"I'm choosing myself."
"By running back to the man who couldn't save your baby?"
The words hit like a slap.
My vision blurs.
Adrian goes still beside me.
Utterly still.
"Say that again," I whisper.
"You blamed him," Marcus continues softly.
"You told me he failed you."
The memory hits.
Sharp.
Ugly.
"Yes," I whisper. "I did."
"And now you're rewriting that too?"
"I was grieving."
"You were honest."
My breath becomes uneven.
"You're twisting this."
"No," he says calmly. "I'm reminding you."
Of what?
Of the anger?
Of the blame?
Of the moment I shattered everything?
"Did you leak the article?" I ask quietly.
"No."
"Swear it."
Silence.
Then—
"I don't answer to you like that anymore."
The shift is subtle.
But real.
"You don't control me," I say.
"I never did."
"You thought you did."
His tone hardens slightly.
"You're confused right now."
"I'm not confused."
"You don't even remember who you love."
The words are meant to destabilize me.
To make me doubt.
To make me small.
But something unexpected happens instead.
I glance at Adrian.
He hasn't moved.
Hasn't interrupted.
Hasn't taken the phone.
He's letting me handle this.
Trusting me.
"You're right," I say quietly into the phone.
"I don't remember."
Marcus exhales softly.
Like he's won.
"But I remember how I felt when you said my work belonged to you."
Silence.
"I remember how small you made me feel."
Another silence.
"And I remember blaming the wrong person."
My voice steadies.
Stronger now.
"You didn't leak it," I say calmly.
"But if you use this against me?"
His voice cools.
"Is that a threat?"
"No."
"It sounds like one."
"It's a boundary."
Silence.
Then—
"You're different," he says.
"Am I?"
"Yes."
"Good."
And I hang up.
My hand trembles slightly after.
Not from fear.
From adrenaline.
Adrian studies me carefully.
"You're shaking."
"I know."
"Are you okay?"
I inhale slowly.
"Yes."
He steps closer.
Not touching yet.
Waiting.
"What did you feel?" he asks quietly.
"Clarity."
His brows lift slightly.
"About?"
"I don't love him."
The words feel solid.
Grounded.
True.
"Do you love me?" he asks softly.
The question hangs in the air.
Dangerous.
Honest.
I swallow.
"I don't remember."
His expression doesn't break.
"But," I continue quietly.
"When he tried to blame you…"
My chest tightens.
"I wanted to defend you."
Silence.
"And that means something," I whisper.
His jaw flexes slightly.
"Yes," he says.
"It does."
But before either of us can say anything more—
His phone rings again.
He glances at the screen.
And something in his expression changes.
Not anger.
Not frustration.
Calculation.
"It's the firm," he says quietly
"What now?"
He answers.
Listens.
Goes still.
Then—
"Send it to me."
He lowers the phone slowly.
"What?" I ask.
His gaze meets mine.
Cold.
Sharp.
Focused.
"The article wasn't speculation."
My stomach drops.
"What do you mean?"
He turns the screen toward me.
There's an attachment.
Medical records.
Scanned.
Private.
Intimate.
Impossible.
"They have hospital files," he says quietly.
The air leaves my lungs.
"That's illegal."
"Yes."
"Who would—"
His voice lowers to something lethal.
"Someone who was there."
And suddenly—
This isn't about Marcus anymore.
Because only a handful of people were in that room the night we lost our child.
⸻
And one of them just sold our grief.