Jade was four months pregnant.
No one knew.
Not her friends. Not her family. Not even him.
She had hidden it, tucked it behind loose sweaters and faint smiles, skipped dinner with vague excuses, whispered her symptoms into the quiet of empty examination rooms. She had gone to her prenatal appointments alone. She had watched the tiny blur on the monitor flicker with life, listened to the heartbeat echo in her ears like thunder, and clutched the printout to her chest in the privacy of a locked bathroom.
She had protected it, fiercely, quietly, this new beginning, this fragile hope.
And she never got the chance to tell anyone.
Cole didn't sleep. He sat in the dark, on the edge of the bed she used to sleep in. Not their bed — hers. The guest room she had moved into years ago without argument. Without tears. Just a quiet retreat, like someone packing away their dignity piece by piece.
The room still smelled like her. Vanilla and paint thinner. A chipped mug of coffee sat cold on the nightstand, half-full. Her robe hung behind the door, sleeves swaying every time the wind rattled the windows.
The penthouse was too quiet without her footsteps. Too sterile without her humming. He'd always hated that—how she filled silence like it was something sacred.
Now, he missed it like air.
Her slippers were still by the door. Her scarf still hung on the hook. Her half-drunk tea was still on the counter, the steam long gone cold. Like she might walk back in at any moment, brushing snow from her coat and laughing at him for looking so haunted.
But she wouldn't.
The doctor had said it was unlikely she survived the fall. The current was too strong. The drop too far. Her body would resurface eventually, he'd added, with clinical detachment — like they were talking about driftwood. Not the woman who once kissed Cole with tears in her eyes and called him her husband.
What haunted him, more than the blood or the scarf or the soaked ballet flat left behind, was that final moment before she fell.
She hadn't screamed.
Hadn't begged.
She had just looked at him.
"Cole."
Soft. Full of faith. As if she still believed — even then — that he would choose her. That he would move. That he would reach for her. That he would know what it meant to love her. To protect her.
But he hadn't moved.
She had called out for him, not just for herself, but for the unborn child he never even knew they had. For their second chance. For everything she had carried in silence and sacrifice.
And he had let her fall.
Now, a tablet sat beside him, screen glowing faintly. Security footage. He couldn't stop watching it.
The last image of her, blurry from fog, standing at the cliff's edge, hair whipping in the wind, dress torn and wet.
And they hadn't even pierced him then. Not until now, when the house echoed with her absence.
Everyone knew she'd had a miscarriage a year ago. The tabloids had whispered it. The staff had cried about it. Vivien had called it "convenient."
But what no one knew… what he didn't know… was that Jade had been pregnant again.
During the kidnapping.
During the screaming.
During that fall.
His hands trembled as he scrolled through her medical files, unlocked by Justin in a rare act of defiance.
Sixteen weeks. That's how far along she was.
No one knew. She hadn't told a soul. Not even her brother. Not even him.
Cole clenched his jaw until it hurt. His vision blurred.
Sixteen weeks.
A heartbeat.
Two lives lost in one fall.
He bent forward, elbows on his knees, fists digging into his forehead. His chest felt caved in. Like he'd swallowed glass and it had begun to shatter from the inside.
He had said nothing as she begged him to see her.
He had chosen Vivien, like it was some clinical verdict. Like it was business.
And now…
Now there was no undoing it.
Across the estate, Justin stood at the cliffs where it had happened. Wind slashed against his coat. Snow clung to the corners of his lashes.
He had fought to reach her. Fought to believe she was alive.
But now… all that was left was blood and a single ballet flat.
Justin closed his eyes.
She would've told me.
But she hadn't.
Because even Jade knew, some things, some secrets, were too fragile to share with men who couldn't protect them.
And he had failed.
Inside, Vivien posed near the fireplace, sipping tea like she hadn't been holding Jade's wrists hours earlier. Like she hadn't helped push.
She stared into the flames and whispered to herself, almost a lullaby.
"She slipped. She slipped. She slipped."
But even she didn't believe it.
Not really.
Because Jade had always been strong.
And women like Jade didn't just slip.
They were pushed.
By people like her.
Now, the fire crackled too loud. The shadows stretched too long.
And for the first time in years, Vivien felt something close to fear.