He'd sneered. Called it a performance. Pulled Faith close to shield her from my "drama" and walked out without a backward glance.
By the time the staff got me to the ER, it was too late. Ten minutes, the doctor said. Ten minutes earlier, and my child would have survived.
Now Faith looked up at me, eyes glistening with rehearsed innocence.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I just wanted to see your trophy up close. I didn't mean to knock it over."
John drew her against his chest. "Don't apologize. You're the one who's hurt."
Then his gaze found me, and the tenderness vanished. "Why was something that fragile left out in the open? It's a hazard."
I stared at him.
Seven years ago, he'd scrapped a hundred-million-dollar deal and chartered a helicopter from Harbor City to Riverdale—just to watch me accept that award. After we married, he'd placed it on the mantle himself.
Your pride is my greatest pride, he'd told me then.
Now it was just broken glass.
When I stayed silent, irritation flickered across his face. "Never mind. There's something you need to know."