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Two months later
Looking at the grainy, crappy photo on my screen one more time, my insides shrivel a little more. I keep looking, trying to see who she looks like–me or Bella. But she’s so small that she fits in my hand. She’s so tiny that they had to wrap her in cotton wool because even the special nappies were too big.
Her skin is so thin that you can see the red flesh beneath it. This little girl was meant to be the best thing that ever happened to us.
Our daughter didn’t stand a chance. She was too early. Too small. Too everything she shouldn’t have been. She was so beautiful though, I know I keep looking to see who she took after, but it had to have been her mother. Arabella is so incredibly beautiful that it hurts, and our daughter would’ve been like her.
I can just imagine this little girl with dark, golden brown hair and dark eyes, a small nose and olive skin. Every bit her mother’s daughter.
I never thought of those details before. They were something we’d be surprised with. How could
I not have thought about those things before?
I can’t stop thinking about them now. I’m sat in this room that would’ve been hers. Arabella and I would have painted the walls that light shade of grey she loves, and we would’ve fought over how I was putting the furniture together. About how much pink there would be. About the furry rug she loved but I hated. The silly rocking chair that was pretty to look at but uncomfortable as fuck to actually sit in.
It’s too late for all that now. Our little girl is gone. Arabella is gone. All I have left are the empty note she left, her rings and this rotting house.
We promised to never leave one another. We took vows. Signed papers. But she’s left me, and I can’t blame her. I can’t hate her.
I can only blame myself. I should’ve been prepared. I should’ve seen it coming. God, I should’ve been the arsehole she accused me of being for keeping her locked up.
“I can’t keep living like this. I need freedom and space. I just want to go for a walk without a bevy of people following me.”
I fucking hate that she’s having to go through this. I hate that we’re having to hide away whilst the cretins of this world get to roam free. They get to hide behind faceless organisations. Secret meetings and a whole heap of shit they’re meant to be fighting against.
I hate that I can’t be the person that gives her those things she’s asking for, when she gives me so much.
“I can’t even buy underwear without Murphy seeing it before you. My bodyguard knows what you’re getting before you, Christopher!” she hisses at me cuttingly.
“You think I give a fuck about what he sees? That’s what he’s paid for, to see things, to keep you safe. I couldn’t give a shit if Ryan Murphy saw me balls deep inside your cunt, so long as he’s doing his fucking job.”
I’ve tried so hard to ignore her jibes the last couple of days. I know she’s hormonal and that she’s upset that we didn’t get to celebrate our civil wedding. I know that I’m the only person that she can rant and rave to about how she’s feeling, because Arabella is proud, and she refuses to show anyone a chink in her armour. She refuses to let anyone see that despite our happiness we struggle too.
“I fucking hate you, you inconsiderate arsehole!” Her fists press into my chest. She’s looking at me with so much anger that it’s making me want to tear her apart and devour her. Her chest is heaving, and her head is tipped back so she can look up at me where she’s so tiny.
Her eyes are tear lined and fuck, my chest aches with the hurt my words have caused her.
“I’m trying, Belles.” I tell her, brushing the soft, curled tendrils that frame her face.
She sighs as I draw her closer to me, until her face is buried in my chest, and I hold her for as long as she lets me. The feel of her swollen belly pressing to me is a reminder as to why we’re doing this. Why we’re putting ourselves through this.
I want our daughter to live in a world where she won’t get snatched from the roadside and sold to the highest bidder. Where she won’t be forced to give up her innocence against her consent, to a man that’s older than her grandfathers.
Arabella looks up at me, her chin resting on my chest. She gives me that soft lopsided smile that tells me she’s calmed down and the harsh words we exchanged are done with, nothing but faraway echoes.
“I’m trying too.” She says as her hands slip to mine at the top of her arse. Her fingers tangle with mine as she steps back, her belly poking out of her lilac silk robe. Her heavy breasts barely concealed.
So fucking beautiful.
“I know you are, mi morena.” She smiles at the Spanish endearment and her cheeks flush. “I love you, Belles. You and…Violet...or Flow…or…”
“It was Livia, Elsie, Florence, or Ophelia, dickhead!”
“I’m not calling my daughter dickhead,” I tease her.
“I was calling you a dickhead, and this is our daughter.” She brings our joined hands to her belly. “You really are sorry, huh?” she says as she rolls onto her tiptoes and then presses a kiss to my jaw. She’s so short that even stretching herself she can’t reach my lips.
I think our baby would’ve been just as petite as her. She would have been as feisty as her mama, with her fiery Spanish temperament.
