Party Night: Loss of Innocence

The front door slammed shut with more force than usual, sending a tremor through the crystal chandelier in our foyer. I looked up from my sketchbook, where I'd been absently drawing nursery designs, my hand instinctively moving to rest on my growing belly. At six months pregnant, even the smallest sounds made me hyperaware—every creak in the house, every shift in Cohen's mood.

"Tatum?" Cohen's voice carried a strange mixture of exhaustion and excitement as his footsteps echoed across the marble floor. "I need to talk to you."

I closed the sketchbook and pushed myself up from the velvet armchair, my back protesting the movement. The baby had been particularly active today, as if sensing the tension that had been building in our household ever since Cohen's grandfather took a turn for the worse. Dr. Mitchell—the family patriarch who'd built their empire from nothing—was dying, and Cohen was slowly unraveling with each passing day.

"You're late," I said softly as he appeared in the doorway of our sitting room. His usually immaculate appearance was disheveled—tie askew, hair mussed, dark circles under his eyes that spoke of too many sleepless nights at the hospital.

"I found someone." He ran his hands through his hair, that gesture I'd once found endearing now seeming frantic. "Someone who can help Grandfather."

My heart sank. We'd been through this before—experimental treatments, specialists flown in from Switzerland, alternative medicine practitioners who promised miracles for the right price. Each disappointment carved deeper lines around Cohen's eyes, made him more desperate, more willing to grasp at straws.

"Cohen, the doctors said—"

"Not a doctor." His eyes lit up with something that made my stomach clench. "A healer. A spiritual healer named Raven Castro. She has a gift, Tatum. She can see things others can't. Feel the energy that's blocking Grandfather's recovery."

The words hung in the air between us like smoke from extinguished candles. I'd never known Cohen to be particularly spiritual—he was a numbers man, a businessman who dealt in contracts and quarterly reports. But grief, I was learning, could reshape a person in ways that defied logic.

"Where did you meet her?" I asked carefully, trying to keep judgment out of my voice.

"Through a colleague whose mother was completely cured of stage four cancer after working with Raven." Cohen's voice gained momentum, as if saying the words faster would make them more convincing. "She doesn't even charge for her services—she says healing is a calling, not a business."

A woman who claimed to cure cancer and worked for free. Every rational part of my mind screamed warnings, but one look at my husband's face—so full of hope after weeks of despair—made me swallow my doubts.

"When would she come?"

"Tonight." Cohen moved closer, taking my hands in his. His fingers were cold, trembling slightly. "She's already on her way. I know this seems sudden, but she said timing is crucial with spiritual healing. The longer we wait, the more the negative energy solidifies."

Before I