The rain hadn't stopped in days.
It beat against the windows like a curse, whispering the same question over and over: Why?
Grey clouds hovered over the estate like a funeral shroud, draping everything in cold light and silence.
"Four months."
Justin's voice cracked as he turned slowly, eyes bloodshot, rimmed red with fury and something deeper—grief. His fists clenched at his sides, trembling.
"She was four months pregnant, Cole."
He swallowed hard, his voice hoarse. "She was going to tell you that night. But instead…" A bitter laugh broke from his chest, wild and disbelieving. "Instead, you chose Vivien."
Cole didn't answer.
Because what could he possibly say?
That he didn't know?
That he hadn't meant to let her fall?
That Vivien was closer?
That he thought Justin would save her?
None of it mattered now.
The words dissolved before they even reached his tongue—tasting like ash and rust and cowardice.
Justin shoved a thick folder against his chest with both hands, almost slamming it into him.
"Here. These are her ultrasounds." His voice cracked again, this time from a place so raw it barely sounded human. "She'd been keeping track. Every appointment. Every heartbeat. Alone. I found it in her cabinet."
Cole opened the folder.
There it was.
A black-and-white image.
A tiny flutter.
A curved blur so faint you had to squint to see it—but if you looked long enough, it almost looked like a smile.
A baby.
His baby.
Gone.
Gone like her.
Justin's voice collapsed into a whisper, soaked in disbelief.
"She was a fool. I told her not to like you. But she still did."
He took a ragged breath. "You didn't even look at her, Cole. When she called your name… when she reached out for you—she wasn't asking to be saved for herself. She wanted you to save your child."
Cole's knees almost buckled.
Downstairs, Evan sat at the kitchen table, hunched over a chipped mug of coffee that had gone cold hours ago. He didn't lift his head as Cole entered. Just stared blankly at the steamless cup.
"You know," Evan murmured, voice quiet and distant, "she never once blamed you."
Cole blinked. "What?"
"She kept trying." Evan finally looked up, eyes shadowed with grief. "Years of cold shoulders, silence, humiliation from your family… from Claire—and still… she tried."
He pushed away from the table and stood. His gaze swept across the kitchen—the curtains she'd changed, the recipe book still bookmarked, the worn oven mitts she insisted on using because he liked them.
"You think this kitchen looked like this for her?" Evan asked, voice thick with sorrow. "She learned to cook for you. Practiced smiling in the mirror so she wouldn't look sad when you came home. She asked me once if men stopped loving women after they became mothers…"
He paused.
"She asked that right before the miscarriage."
Cole turned away, but the words hit like broken glass. His chest tightened. The air turned thin.
The memories returned—fierce and merciless.
The quiet dinners she waited through.
The soft, uncertain "Welcome home"s even when he came back late, smelling of someone else.
The way she stood in the doorway with a birthday cake he never touched.
The way she blinked away tears in silence when he turned his back on her—again and again.
Evan's voice dropped.
"She cried alone in that hospital."
His next words were barely a whisper. "And you didn't even call."
FLASHBACK
It had been late. The house quiet.
Jade sat curled on the edge of the bed, clutching something small in her hands. Cole had just walked in, drunk, distracted, not expecting her to be awake.
"I made you soup," she said quietly, her voice like paper. "It's still warm."
He barely glanced at her. "I'm not hungry."
Jade hesitated, then stood. "Cole… I—" She faltered, looking down at the object in her palm. It was a tiny pair of baby socks. White, with little embroidered stars. Her thumb trembled as she traced one. "There's something I wanted to tell you…"
But he was already walking past her. Already unbuttoning his shirt, shrugging off responsibility like it was just another jacket.
"Not now, Jade. I'm tired."
And he fell into bed, turning his back to her like always.
She never gave him the socks.
That night, Cole opened the door to her room again.
The lavender scent was fading.
Her books were still on the shelf.
The chair by the window was empty now, the blanket folded neatly—like she had every hope of returning.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
Pulled her pillow into his lap.
And for the first time in years—maybe for the first time in his life—
Cole Blaine wept.
Not for the perfect life he could've had.
But for the woman he had destroyed… before he ever truly saw her.