Caroline POV

Pain wasn't just a sensation anymore. It was a universe.

I was floating in it, untethered.

Bright lights scorched my retinas.

"BP is crashing!" someone yelled, voice distorted by panic. "She's hemorrhaging internally!"

"We need blood! O-negative! Stat!"

I tried to speak. I tried to force my name past my lips.

"Mrs. Santos?" A young doctor's face swam into view above me. He looked terrified. "Stay with us."

"Blake..." I whispered. Not because I wanted him. But because he was a surgeon. He controlled the blood bank.

"We're paging him," the doctor said, pressing a mask to my face. "He's the on-call trauma lead for the region. He has the override codes for the shortage."

I drifted out.

I drifted back in.

The doctor was arguing on the phone, his knuckles white as he gripped the receiver.

"Dr. Santos, please! Her hematocrit is critical. We need the reserve units!"

Silence.

Then the doctor's face went deathly pale.

"But sir... it's your wife."

Silence again. A heavy, suffocating pause.

"Understood. Reserving the units for Patient Whitfield in case of shock."

The doctor hung up. He looked at the nurse. He looked sick.

"He refused," the doctor whispered, disbelief coloring his tone. "He said to keep the O-neg on standby for Ariana Whitfield. She has a laceration on her finger and anxiety."

"What about her?" the nurse demanded, pointing at me.

"Saline," the doctor said, his voice cracking. "Push fluids. Pray it's enough."

It wasn't enough.

I felt the cold creeping in.

Not from the rain. From the inside.

Then, I felt a cramping in my lower belly. A deep, twisting agony that had nothing to do with the truck.

"We're losing the fetal heartbeat," the nurse said softly.

Fetal heartbeat?

I blinked, trying to clear the fog.

"Pregnant?" I rasped.

"Eight weeks," the doctor said, tears swimming in his eyes. "Mrs. Santos... without the blood... the body prioritizes the vital organs. It's shunting flow away from the uterus."

I tried to scream.

I tried to tell them to take my heart instead.

But I had no air.

I felt the life slip away.

A tiny spark, extinguished because of a reserve order for a paper cut.

I passed out.

When I woke up, the room was silent.

I was alive.

But I was empty.

My hand went to my stomach. Flat. Hollow.

The young doctor stood by the door. He couldn't look me in the eye.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Did he come?" I asked. My voice was shards of broken glass.

"No," he said. "He's still with Ms. Whitfield. She's... she's sedated."

I reached for the bedside table.

My purse was there. Bridget had packed it.

I pulled out the ledger.

It was wet. Stained with mud and blood.

I opened it.

Minus five points.

Killed our child for her reserve.

Score: -5.

"Doctor," I said.

"Yes?"

"I need you to witness a signature."

I pulled out the separation papers.

I signed them. The pen tore through the damp paper.

"Call my housekeeper," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "Tell her I'm ready."

I didn't cry.

Tears were for people who had hope.

I was just a ghost leaving a haunted house.

Blake POV

The penthouse was quiet.

Too quiet.

Usually, there was the low hum of the HVAC, the faint, rhythmic sound of Caroline typing in the study, or the scent of whatever fancy, complex candle she was burning.

Tonight, the air was sterile. It smelled like nothing.

"Caroline?"

I tossed my keys on the console table, the metal clattering loudly in the silence.

My head was pounding. A rhythmic throb behind my eyes.

Ariana had been hysterical. The flat tire had turned into a meltdown about her safety, which had quickly spiraled into a meltdown about the gallery. I had spent four hours calming her down.

I checked my phone.

Zero missed calls from Caroline.

That was odd. She usually called to nag me about being late, or at least to ask when I'd be home.

I walked into the kitchen.

It was spotless. Not a dish out of place.

I walked into the living room.

Empty.

A cold unease started to crawl up my spine.

I went to the master bedroom.

The bed was made. Military precision.

I opened the closet.

My side was full. Suits, shirts, shoes, all lined up perfectly.

Her side was... bare.

Not just messy. Stripped.

The hangers were gone. The shoes were gone. The jewelry box on the island was open and empty.

"Caroline!" I shouted, my voice echoing off the walls.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced my chest.

My phone rang.

The sudden chime made me jump.

I answered it without looking, desperation seizing my throat.

"Where is she?" I barked.

"Blake?" Ariana's voice was small, trembling. "Who?"

"Caroline," I snapped. "Did she call you?"

"No," Ariana said, sniffling. "But... she threatened me earlier. Remember? At the dinner? Maybe she's planning something. Maybe she's trying to hurt me."

"Shut up, Ariana," I said.

I hung up.

I stared at the empty closet, the void where her life used to be.

This wasn't a tantrum.

Caroline didn't throw tantrums. She planned. She calculated.

She was an architect.

She didn't just leave. She demolished.

I ran to the study.

The desk was cleared. Her laptop was gone.

But on the leather chair, sitting squarely in the center, was a white envelope.

And a black book.

Blake POV

I was reaching for the envelope on the desk when the front door didn't just open-it exploded inward.

Shards of timber sprayed across the hallway floor.

I spun around, my hand instinctively flying to the Glock holstered at my waist.

It was Mark.

My Capo. My best friend since we were kids running numbers on the block.

But I had never seen him look like this.

His face was crimson, the veins in his neck corded and pulsing against his skin. He was heaving, breathing in ragged gasps as if he had sprinted up all thirty flights of stairs.

"You absolute disgrace," he spat.

I lowered my hand, confusion warring with adrenaline. "Mark? What the hell-"

"Don't speak," he roared, kicking aside a piece of the broken door frame. "You don't get to speak."

"I am your Underboss," I warned, my voice dropping an octave into a command. "Watch your tone."

"You're a rabid dog," Mark said, stalking toward me until he was in my personal space. He poked a finger into my chest. Hard. "And the Don is going to put you down."

"What are you talking about?"

"Caroline," he said.

My stomach dropped as if the floor had vanished.

"Where is she?"

"She's gone," Mark said, his voice trembling. "Bridget picked her up from the hospital an hour ago."

"Hospital?" I frowned, the pieces refusing to fit. "Why was she at the hospital? Her leg?"

Mark laughed. It was a dark, ugly sound that held no humor.

"You don't know," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Of course you don't know. You were too busy holding Ariana's hand because she had a fucking hangnail."

"Ariana was in shock," I defended automatically, though the excuse sounded weak even to my own ears.

"Caroline was hit by a semi-truck," Mark screamed.

The world stopped.

The air was sucked out of the room.

"What?"

"After you left her. At the cemetery. In the storm." Mark's eyes were swimming with unshed tears. "She walked to the highway. A truck skidded. She couldn't move fast enough."

I staggered back, my legs striking the edge of the desk chair.

"Is she..." I couldn't say it. I couldn't give the word life.

"She's alive," Mark said. "Barely."

Relief washed over me, so potent it made me dizzy. "Okay. She's alive. I can fix this. I'll go to her. I'll-"

"You can't fix this," Mark interrupted, his voice dropping to a whisper that was infinitely louder than his scream. "Because of the blood."

"The blood?"

"They called you," Mark said. "The ER. They needed the O-negative override codes. They paged Dr. Santos."

I froze.

The page.

The memory crashed into me.

Trauma Room 1. Critical. Requesting reserve units.

I was with Ariana. She was hyperventilating, tears streaming down her face because she had nicked her finger on a shard of a broken wine glass. She was terrified of blood.

I had told them to hold the reserve. Just in case she went into shock. Just in case she needed it.

"I didn't know it was her," I whispered, horror clawing at my throat. "They didn't say the name."

"You didn't ask," Mark countered. "You chose the mistress over the unknown patient. And the patient was your wife."

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled medical report. He slammed it onto the desk next to the black book.

"Read it."

I looked down, my vision blurring.

Patient: Caroline Santos.

Diagnosis: Blunt force trauma. Grade 3 Hemorrhage.

Procedure: Emergency laparotomy.

Outcome: Stabilized.

My eyes drifted to the bottom of the page, dreading what lay there.

Notes: Due to delayed transfusion, patient suffered hypovolemic shock resulting in spontaneous abortion. Fetus demise at 8 weeks.

The room spun violently.

I grabbed the desk to keep from falling, my knuckles turning white.

"Fetus," I choked out.

"A son," Mark said mercilessly. "You had a son, Blake. And you killed him to save a panic attack."

I looked at the black book.

I opened it, my fingers trembling.

The handwriting was shaky at the end.

Minus five points.

Killed our child for her reserve.

Score: -5.

I looked up at Mark, broken.

"She's gone," he said, his voice void of sympathy. "She signed the papers. She declared war, Blake. And you? You're the enemy."

I fell into the chair, all strength leaving my body.

I covered my face with my hands.

And then, I screamed.