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But there was also a voice inside my head that wondered. Was he concerned for me or just for the baby? Would he still be as distraught if I weren’t carrying his child, or would I be nothing more than a memory—long forgotten?
“We’ll need to run some tests,” the doctor told us, “to determine what’s going on.”
The doctor waited until I nodded. “As a first action, we’ll get you hooked on an IV to balance out your fluids.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, grateful for the care but still uneasy about the situation.
Gabe didn’t speak, his jaw clenched in silent rage—at what or whom, I wasn’t entirely sure—even though it felt like it was directed at me.
Was he blaming me for what happened?
For not taking good enough care of his heir?
I reached out until Gabe took my hand, then squeezed his gently. He looked down at me, his dark eyes softening ever so slightly.
Or maybe I just saw what I wanted to see. “I’m okay,” I reassured him. “Really. And the baby, as well.”
Because that was his real concern, right? The baby—his reason for taking me back.
He nodded but said nothing, the worry lines between his brows remaining. And at that moment, I wished more than anything that I could read his mind, could know what he was really thinking, what he truly felt for me.
But how could I?
Half an hour later, everything seemed to close in on me as I lay there, the smell of antiseptic and the throbbing headache a constant reminder of my vulnerable state.
Gabe paced back and forth, his frustration palpable, and I wished I could do something to soothe him.
Next came the nurses.
As they poked and prodded me, I tried not to think about the sharp needles piercing my skin or the whirring machines surrounding me. Instead, I focused on Gabe, who stood by my side like a protective sentinel, staring down at everyone who dared to enter the room and come near.
I knew he was suffering, too, and suddenly, I didn’t feel so alone in this mess anymore.
I wasn’t alone in this mess, and even if he didn’t love me, he at least stood by my side.
When they wheeled me to get the CT scan, Gabe marched beside me.
Nobody questioned his presence, and soon we were back in the room.
“Come here,” I whispered and reached out to him.
He hesitated but eventually took the few steps needed to sit beside me on the bed. His touch was gentle as he caressed the back of my hand, and for a moment, I forgot about the headache that pounded relentlessly behind my eyes.
Until the doctor returned, his expression grave.
And my stomach tightened.
“Mrs. Falcone, there’s internal bleeding in your brain, which is causing your headache. We’re concerned that we may need to perform a small procedure to decrease the pressure.”
The room seemed to spin, and I struggled to keep my breathing steady.
Gabe’s grip on my hand tightened, but he remained eerily calm. “What are the risks?”
The doctor pursed his lips, concern etching lines on his face. “With every surgical procedure, there’s a risk involved because it might impact the pregnancy.”
I felt my heart drop, panic and indecision gripping me.
The thought of putting our baby at risk utterly terrified me. “Maybe we shouldn’t,” I whispered and glanced nervously between Gabe and the doctor.
