Chapter 1

A sharp, stabbing pain in my lower abdomen woke me from a deep sleep. It was sudden and fierce, making me gasp and curl into a ball. I reached out a hand, searching for the familiar warmth of my husband, Mark, but my fingers only met cold, empty sheets. The space beside me in bed was vacant.

The clock on the nightstand glowed with the numbers 3:17 AM. The sleek, minimalist bedroom of our New York apartment, a space I had designed with so much love, felt vast and hollow. The pain came in another wave, even stronger this time, and a cold sweat broke out on my forehead. I had to call him. Something was very wrong.

My hand trembled as I grabbed my phone and dialed Mark' s number. We had been trying for a baby, and a sliver of fear, sharp and cold, shot through me. The phone rang once, twice, then someone picked up. But the voice that answered wasn't Mark' s.

"Hello?" It was a woman's voice, soft and a little hesitant. Lily.

"Lily? Where's Mark? Let me talk to him," I said, my voice tight with pain.

"Sarah? It's so late," she replied, a hint of annoyance in her tone. "Mark is busy. Eleanor isn't feeling well, so he's here with me."

Eleanor was Lily' s mother, Mark' s godmother, who had recently returned to the country for pancreatic cancer treatment. I understood that, but this was different.

"I need to talk to him now. It's an emergency," I gritted out, clutching my stomach as another cramp seized me.

"An emergency?" Lily' s voice was laced with disbelief, as if I were a child crying wolf. "Sarah, you know how sick my mom is. We can't be distracted by your drama right now. Mark will call you when he has a moment."

"It's not drama!" I nearly shouted, but she had already hung up. The dial tone buzzed in my ear, a flat, indifferent sound. I tried calling back immediately, but it went straight to Mark's voicemail. He had turned his phone off or silenced my call. The feeling of being abandoned was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest, making it hard to breathe.

The pain was now unbearable, a constant, searing fire. I knew I couldn't wait for him. I had to save myself. I slid off the bed, my legs nearly buckling. Every movement was agony. I crawled across the cold hardwood floor, my breath coming in ragged sobs. I reached the front door, fumbled for my keys and purse, and managed to dial 911.

"911, what's your emergency?" a calm voice asked.

"I... I think I'm dying," I whispered, the words barely audible.

At the hospital, the bright lights felt harsh and unforgiving. A doctor with a grim face looked down at me after a quick ultrasound. "You have a ruptured ectopic pregnancy," he said, his voice direct. "You're bleeding internally. We need to get you into surgery right now."

A nurse with kind eyes gently touched my arm. "Is there anyone we can call for you? Your husband?"

"I tried," I said, my voice cracking. "I can't reach him."

They pushed a clipboard into my hands. "We need you to sign the consent form for the surgery." My eyes scanned the paper, the medical terms a blur. I saw the line for the patient's signature and, with a hand that shook uncontrollably, I signed my name. Sarah Miller. Alone. No one was there to hold my hand, to tell me it would be okay. I was being wheeled into the operating room, a solitary figure in a sea of sterile green.

Hours later, I woke up in the recovery room, a dull ache in my abdomen where the sharp pain had been. The first thing I did was reach for my phone. My fingers felt clumsy, but I managed to dial Mark's number again. This time, he answered.

"What is it now, Sarah?" His voice was clipped, filled with an exhaustion that had no room for me.

"Mark," I started, my own voice hoarse from the intubation tube. "I had surgery."

Before I could say more, I heard Lily's frantic voice in the background. "Mark, come quick! Mom's monitor is beeping again!"

"I have to go," Mark said instantly, his attention already gone. "We can talk about whatever this is later."

He hung up. Just like that.

I stared at the white ceiling of the hospital room, the rhythmic beep of my own IV drip the only sound. Eight years. We had been together for eight years, since we were teenagers in our small hometown. We survived a long-distance relationship through college, his in California, mine in New York. We had built this life together. And now, after I had just lost our baby and nearly my own life, he hung up on me for another woman. The bitter irony of it all settled in my heart, heavy and cold. The love I thought was unbreakable had just shattered into a million pieces.