In the days that followed, Jocelyn was listless. She spent hours curled up in the rocking chair without a word, refusing to touch even the sweet soups she'd always loved.
Ivor assumed it was nothing more than pregnancy hormones wreaking havoc on her mood. He cleared his entire schedule on the spot and planted himself in the villa, never leaving her side.
Worried she couldn't keep anything down, the man who had never so much as boiled water in his life stationed himself in the kitchen every day, simmering broths and soups from scratch. Hot oil spattered his fingertips and raised angry red blisters, but he didn't flinch. He simply carried a bowl of bird's nest porridge to her bedside and coaxed her to eat in the gentlest voice he could manage.
But that tenderness evaporated the instant he found the box of prenatal medication sitting untouched.
Ivor summoned the doctor to monitor the baby, then strode over and pinned Jocelyn down, ignoring every ounce of her struggle.
"Be good. Just bear with it for a second. I know you're uncomfortable, but I can't risk our child."
Her lower back slammed against the edge of the counter. Pain whited out her vision.