Chapter 4

Sienna blocked the doorway, smiling innocent and airy:

"It's just irregular bleeding. That's so common for girls. Vincent, don't make a fuss."

"Move." Vincent's voice went cold, anger barely restrained.

It was the first time he'd openly gone against Sienna in front of everyone.

I was rushed into St. Mary's Hospital's ER.

In the anesthesia haze, half-awake and half-gone, I could still catch the voices outside the examination room.

Sienna whined like she was complaining about a toy she couldn't control:

"Did you guys put in too much hallucinogen? I thought it was just to make her embarrass herself in public."

Someone laughed, smug like he wanted credit:

"Getting rid of a burden is a win too. Vincent should thank me."

"Yeah. It's been three years," another voice cut in. "If she really had a kid, how would Vincent shake her off and dump her? We're helping him clear the mines."

The air went dead.

After a long silence, Vincent finally spoke, low and heavy:

"A prank is a prank. Don't touch her body."

Sienna paused, then questioned angry:

"Who said he wanted to make this bookworm taste what it's like to fall from the clouds, to get revenge for me? Wasn't it you who suggested making Claire embarrass herself as my birthday gift?"

Her voice suddenly sharpened like a blade:

"You aren't... falling in love with her, are you?"

The next second, Vincent denied it like he was dodging a bullet, speaking fast with almost-panicked urgency:

"How could I? I love you, Sienna. Of course I love you."

Laughter immediately rose again outside, like a group of people toasting their crime.

They were celebrating the end of prank 98 while already discussing how to make 99 "even prettier."

I pressed a hand over my flattened belly. A dull pain pulsed there, like a hollow I could never patch.

Me and my baby were just a part of their game.

Just Sienna's birthday gift.

Tears slid silently into my hairline.

And then I laughed coldly.

Shaking, I canceled the surgery appointment I'd booked.

There was no decision left for me to make.

The child's father had already sentenced her to death for me.

I was about to contact my dad when Vincent pushed the door open.

I squeezed my eyes shut and pretended to sleep, but my lashes wouldn't stop trembling.

He stood by the bed for a long time, like he was staring at something he'd broken.

Then I heard his voice, hoarse with guilt, so soft it sounded like it might shatter:

"Claire... I'm sorry."

A few days after I was discharged, Vincent said Sienna and those guys wanted to "apologize" to me.

They invited us to hike a mountain, a "very effective" place, to pray for our dead baby.

They spoke like they meant it.

But I knew this was probably another prank.

Still... when I thought of the baby, that sour ache in my chest hooked into me.

I was leaving for Italy soon anyway.

I told myself this could be... the last time I ever saw him.

We went to a mountain up in Hudson Valley. Winter wind cut like a knife, stinging the corners of my eyes.

At the summit was a small monastery and chapel. Wind chimes hung along the stone wall.

Beside it, a wish tree was covered in name tags.

All the way up, they crowded around Sienna, laughing and flattering her, acting like I didn't exist.

At a memorial stall beside the chapel, Vincent bought a small prayer tag and handed me a pen, lowering his voice:

"Write something to the baby."

I wrote with him. My hands shook so badly the letters nearly slid sideways.

He closed his fingers around mine and helped me steady the final stroke.

Sienna stood beside us, smiling like a sugarcoat bomb:

"Claire, you're such a good mom."

I ignored her.

There weren't many empty spots left on the wish tree.

When I hung our tag, I had to step over the rail and lean half my body out.

The next second, a huge shove slammed into my back —

"Ah-!"

I pitched forward with no warning, my whole body tumbling down the steep slope.

Rocks, dead branches, icy mud tore across my skin.

Pain exploded instantly, radiating into my organs.

My right leg felt like it snapped clean in half. I couldn't even scream.

My vision went black, and I passed out on the spot.

Between drifting in and out, I felt someone lift me.

I smelled that familiar mix of cedar and tobacco.

I heard Vincent's breath, wild and frantic, like a beast out of control.

His eyes were terrifyingly red. His voice shook:

"Claire, don't be scared. I'm taking you to the hospital."

I forced my eyes open. My vision swam, but I still squeezed out a question, thin as air:

"Why..."

Tears poured out, burning like fire:

"Why are you doing this to me?"

The wounds were on my body, but it felt like my heart was being ripped into pieces.

Vincent's jaw tightened until it was blue-white. His eyes were full of guilt and terror, like he'd finally seen the fire he'd lit swallowing everything.

"I didn't know they'd do this... I really didn't."

After that, my consciousness snapped completely, sinking into black.

When I woke again, my right leg was wrapped in thick plaster.

The doctor said there might be permanent damage.

Lying in that bed, tears slid silently down my face like a funeral that came too late.

Vincent sat by my bed, hollow-eyed, bruised with exhaustion, dark shadows under his eyes.

He stared at my leg for a long time, like he was afraid to touch it, or couldn't bear to look away.