The Secret Savior He Threw Away

The wet warmth between her legs pulled Diana from the heavy fog of sleep. For a blissful second, she thought it was just sweat, a fever breaking after a night of chills. But as her mind focused, the metallic, copper scent hit her nose.

Her eyes snapped open.

She threw back the heavy duvet. A dark, stark stain spread across the pale Egyptian cotton sheets, centered right beneath her. It was a horrifying bloom of red against the pristine white.

"No," she breathed, the word catching in her dry throat.

She tried to sit up, but a blinding cramp ripped through her lower abdomen. It felt like a giant, invisible hand was twisting her insides, squeezing until she couldn't breathe. She gasped, doubling over, her fingers clutching the soaked sheets. The pain was a living thing, radiating from her core down to her trembling legs.

She looked at the blood again. It was too much. This wasn't just spotting. This was her body emptying out.

The tablet on the nightstand lit up with a push notification, casting a cold blue glow across the dark room. Diana reached for it with a shaking hand, desperate for a distraction, desperate for anything to anchor her to reality.

The screen showed a breaking news alert from the Wall Street Journal. The headline read: Alston CEO and Art Sensation Carla Booth Debut New Partnership at SoHo Gallery.

Below the headline was a photo. Curtis Alston, her husband, stood next to Carla Booth. He was in a tailored tuxedo, his dark hair perfectly styled. But it wasn't his outfit that made Diana's stomach heave. It was his eyes. He was looking down at Carla, who was laughing up at him, and the expression on his face was one Diana had never seen directed at her in three years of marriage. It was warmth. It was absolute adoration.

A fresh wave of cramps hit her, and she dropped the tablet onto the mattress. She curled into a ball, pressing her forehead to her knees.

She remembered the stairs. Just a few hours ago, she had been walking down the marble staircase of this very penthouse, trying to answer the door for a delivery. Her foot had slipped on the polished edge. She remembered the horrible, weightless sensation of falling, the sickening crack of her tailbone against the steps, and then the immediate, gushing warmth.

She had lain at the bottom of the stairs, gasping, watching the blood pool beneath her nightgown. She had scrambled for her phone, her fingers slick with her own blood, and dialed Curtis.

He had answered on the third ring. Background noise-clinking glasses, smooth jazz, Carla's distinctive laugh-had flooded the line.

"Curtis," she had sobbed, "I fell. I'm bleeding. Please, I need an ambulance."

His voice had been ice. "Diana, I'm in the middle of a crucial transatlantic meeting. Stop being dramatic and call the house doctor. I don't have time for your tantrums right now."

The line went dead.

And now,