Chapter 7 - The Dawn in the Room
The first gray light of dawn was beginning to bleed through the high windows when Roman re-entered the suite.
Claire was still awake. She was sitting up against the velvet headboard, a cup of warm chamomile tea held between her hands. Dr. Chen was standing by the IV pole, adjusting the drip speed before packing her bag.
“Her vitals are improving,” Dr. Chen said softly to Roman as he walked in. “Her blood pressure is up to 110 over 70. The baby’s heartbeat is steady. But she needs absolute rest, Roman. No stress. No excitement. Good food, warm rooms, and quiet.”
“She’ll have everything,” Roman said.
Lila nodded, gave Claire’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Roman walked over to the bed and sat in the chair beside her. He looked at Claire’s hands—the narrow, calloused fingers, the small red burn mark on her right index finger from her diner job, the pale ring of skin where her wedding band had sat for three years.
“Julian took the money,” Roman said quietly.
Claire looked at him, her pale blue eyes showing no surprise, only a deep, weary sadness. “I know. It was Julian who came to my apartment two weeks after you left. He told me that if I tried to contact you, he’d make sure the city inspectors closed my brother’s bakery in Pilsen.”
Roman felt his jaw clench so tight his teeth gritted together. “Your brother’s bakery is fine. I bought the mortgage on his building three months ago to make sure no one touched it.”
Claire let out a small, breathless sigh. “You bought his mortgage?”
“I tried to protect everyone, Claire,” Roman said, his voice cracking for the first time that night. He reached out, his long fingers hovering over her knee before he gently laid his palm against the blanket. “I thought if I kept you away from me, if I made myself look like a monster who discarded you, the New York families wouldn't see you as a target. I thought I was sending you to England with enough money to live like a queen for the rest of your life.”
Claire set her tea cup down on the nightstand. She looked at him—really looked at him—seeing the blood on his knuckles, the tear-tracks in the dust on his face, the absolute, unvarnished agony in his eyes.
“You made yourself a monster to save me?” she asked softly.
“I made myself a fool,” Roman corrected bitterly. “I trusted the men in my own house instead of looking at the woman I loved.”
Claire reached out. Her fingers were cold, frail, but her touch was deliberate as she laid her hand over his on the bed.
“You said 'loved,'” she whispered.
Roman looked up, his dark eyes meeting hers with an intensity that burned through the gray morning light.
“I never stopped,” he said. “Not for a second. Not when I signed those papers. Not when I watched you drive away. Every night I sat in this room and hated myself for giving you up.”
Claire stared at him, tears welling up in her eyes and spilling over her lashes, tracing clean lines through the pale dust on her cheeks.
“He kicked me, Roman,” she murmured, her voice small, vulnerable, like that of a child waking from a nightmare.
Roman blinked. “Who?”
Claire took his large hand and moved it beneath the blanket, pressing his palm directly against the soft, warm curve of her bare stomach beneath her cotton gown.
“The baby,” she whispered. “He kicked three times while you were downstairs.”
May you like
Roman froze. Beneath his thick, calloused palm, he felt a sharp, distinct push—a tiny foot or elbow pressing against the wall of her belly, demanding its place in the world.
A deep, shuddering breath escaped Roman’s chest. He leaned forward, burying his face against the blanket at her waist, his shoulders shaking as he wept openly, without shame, holding his wife and his unborn child in the quiet room while the sun rose over Lake Michigan.
