Chapter 3
The hospital door pushed open.
Toby walked in, holding a brand-new iPad.
"Dad, Phoebe's waiting in the car," Toby whined, kicking the leg of a chair. "Are we leaving for Vermont or what?"
I stared at my ten-year-old son, my voice trembling. "Toby... the baby is gone."
Toby shifted his weight, rolling his eyes.
"Phoebe said you were probably just faking it to ruin my trip," Toby muttered. "And even if you aren't, it's not my fault. You shouldn't have been standing right behind me. You always have to hover."
My breath hitched. Not his fault. Faking it.
"Besides, I didn't even want a sibling. You're already crazy enough trying to control just me. I'm going to the car."
He turned and walked out, letting the heavy door slam shut behind him.
I closed my eyes. A tear slipped down my temple. My unborn child was dead. My husband was blaming me. And my own son didn't even care that he was the one who killed it.
Steve sighed, looking at his watch.
"Look, I have a solution," he said, pulling a chair up to the bed. "My lab is finalizing an experimental emotional desensitization protocol. It uses targeted hypnotherapy to suppress acute trauma."
"What?"
"I'm sending you to Brookside Rest," Steve said smoothly. "It’s a quiet facility just outside the city. You need to rest. The therapy will numb the memory of the miscarriage, the fight, all of this unnecessary pain. In three months, when I get back, I’ll reverse the treatment. Everything will go back to normal."
He leaned in, looking like the perfect, caring husband. "This way, you don't have to sit alone in an empty house for three months, spiraling and crying over things you can't change. Just rest."
I looked at the man I had given my entire life to. My career, my youth, my identity—all sacrificed for him. And now, my baby was dead. My son hated me. My husband was packing his bags to play house with his mistress.
I was entirely broken. I had no fight left in me.
"Okay," I whispered to the empty room.
Steve wasted no time. He didn't even let me stay in the hospital overnight for observation. That very same afternoon, he had me discharged and drove me straight to Brookside Rest.
Before he got back in his car, he stopped at the front steps and pointed a finger at me. "Remember what we agreed on. No phones. No visitors. Just cooperate with the doctors."
He drove away without looking back.
The treatments started immediately. Every afternoon, I was strapped into a chair in a dim room. Flashing lights, rhythmic audio cues, a doctor's monotonous voice repeating phrases.
Slowly, the edges of my mind began to blur. The sharp, stabbing pain of losing my baby dulled into a confusing ache.
Until one Tuesday afternoon, two weeks into my stay.
I was sitting on a bench in the hallway, waiting for my session. The door to the staff breakroom was cracked open.
"Room 12?" a nurse whispered. "The one Professor Harrington dropped off?"
"Yeah," another voice replied. "I still can't believe he put her on the desensitization protocol. That therapy has never been cleared for human trials. The risk of permanent brain damage is off the charts."
"I know. He completely hid it from her. I saw the paperwork. He didn't list the risks, and he invoked some marital medical proxy to strip her of all communication rights. She doesn't even know she has the right to refuse."
"Jesus," the first nurse sighed. "Didn't she just have a miscarriage?"
"Yep. Dumped her here right after the D&C. Meanwhile, he's up in Vermont with his kid and that blonde researcher from his lab. My friend follows him on Instagram. They're posting ski trip photos every day, playing happy family. It's been two weeks, and he hasn't called here once to check on his wife."
I sat frozen on the bench.
Permanent brain damage.
Human trials.
I wasn't here to heal. I was just Steve's guinea pig. He was using my trauma—trauma he and Toby caused—to test his lab's illegal project, while he slept with Phoebe in Vermont.
Istared at the floor.
I waited for the rage. I waited for the betrayal to tear through my chest. I waited for the urge to scream, to run, to call the police.
But nothing came.
There was no anger. No panic. Not a single ripple of emotion in my heart. Just a terrifying, hollow silence.
The desensitization protocol was already working. Steve was erasing my soul, and I couldn't even feel sad about it.
The days bled into weeks. I forgot why I was sad. I forgot the fight. I forgot the hospital. I just knew my name was Rachel.
I spent my days wandering the facility's massive gardens in a quiet haze.
That was where I met Garrett.
He was a volunteer architectural restorer, fixing up the old greenhouse on the property. He was tall, with broad shoulders and calloused hands.
"I'm Garrett," he said one afternoon, handing me a small trowel.
His little niece often tagged along, running between the flowerbeds. I started helping them arrange the hydrangeas and prune the rose bushes. The feeling of damp soil on my fingers felt familiar. It felt safe.
For the first time in months, a faint smile touched my lips. Garrett just watched quietly, handing me the pruning shears, keeping a respectful distance.
Three months vanished into the dirt and leaves.
Up in Vermont, the "research trip" was a massive success for Steve and Phoebe. Toby loved the woods and the freedom. But as the weeks dragged on, Toby started waking up in the middle of the night.
The house was too quiet. Phoebe never checked his food labels. She never asked about his allergies. She just bought him whatever junk food he pointed at.
The longer they stayed, the more a strange, creeping guilt gnawed at Toby’s stomach.
The morning they arrived back in Boston, Toby didn't even take his coat off. He stood firmly by the front door, gripping his suitcase handle.
"I want Mom," Toby demanded, his voice trembling but stubborn. "Take me to get her right now."
"Toby, stop it. We just got home," Phoebe kicked off her heels, looking annoyed. "I'm exhausted. Go play in your room."
"No!" Toby yelled, his eyes turning red. He looked at his dad. "Take me to her right now, or I'm calling Grandpa and telling him everything!"
Steve froze. He looked at Phoebe, who was glaring at his son with open disgust, and then at Toby, who was on the verge of a full meltdown. The fun vacation was over. The reality of parenting was crashing down on him, and he suddenly realized he desperately needed his unpaid caretaker back to fix this mess.
Steve yanked his phone out of his coat pocket, his movements sharp and anxious. He dialed the clinic.
"Dr. Evans," Steve barked the second the line connected. "I'm coming to pick up my wife. Have her ready."
"Professor, she hasn't finished her final—"
"I don't care!" Steve snapped, his voice tight with panic and impatience. "I am the medical proxy. I said we are done. Process her discharge papers right now. I'll be there in forty minutes."
I walked into the main lobby.
Steve was leaning against the reception desk, checking his watch.
When he heard my footsteps, he put on a smile.
"Rachel, time to go home."
Toby stepped out from behind his legs.
I stopped a few feet away.
I looked at the man in the expensive coat. I looked at the boy staring at me. I didn't move.
Steve’s smile began to slip. "Rachel? Did you hear me? Let's go."
I tilted my head, staring blankly into his eyes.
"I'm sorry," I said, my voice completely flat. "Who are you?"
