After My Groom Chose His Wife Over Me

I woke to white.

White ceiling. White walls. White sheets pulled tight across my chest. The room hummed with machines I couldn't see. Something beeped in steady rhythm near my head.

I didn't move.

My body felt distant. Hollow. Like someone had scooped out my insides and sewn me back together with nothing but air.

I knew before I touched my stomach. Before anyone spoke. The absence was absolute.

The baby was gone.

I turned my head toward the window. Grey light filtered through half-closed blinds. Morning or afternoon—I couldn't tell. Time had collapsed into something flat and meaningless.

Footsteps in the corridor. Soft-soled shoes on linoleum.

A nurse appeared in the doorway. Middle-aged. Kind eyes. She saw I was awake and her expression shifted—just for a second. Something careful moved across her face. Something that looked like pity wrapped in professional distance.

She didn't say it.

She didn't have to.

I turned back toward the wall and lay still. Breathing. In for four. Out for four. Counting the seconds between heartbeats until the numbers stopped meaning anything.

Hours passed. Maybe minutes. The light changed. The machines kept beeping.

Then I heard him.

Footsteps I knew. Heavier than the nurses'. Uneven. Like someone who'd been standing too long and forgot how to walk properly.

Kian appeared in the doorway.

He looked grey. Unwashed. His shirt was wrinkled and his tie hung loose around his neck like he'd pulled at it repeatedly and given up. His eyes were red-rimmed and hollow.

He took one step into the room. Stopped. Reached for the chair beside my bed and gripped the back like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

"Eloise," he said.

His voice cracked on my name.

I looked at him. This man who'd dropped my hand. Who'd run. Who'd held another woman while I bled on marble and my mother's heart stopped six feet away.

The wire around my ribs was gone.

Something colder had taken its place.

I blinked. Tilted my head. Let confusion drift across my face like clouds.

"Why are you crying?" I asked.

My voice came out soft. Bewildered. Sweet.

Kian froze.

"What?"

I smiled. Small. Uncertain. "You look so sad. Did something happen at work?"

He stared at me. His hand tightened on the chair until his knuckles went white.

"Eloise—" He stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. "Do you know where you are?"

I looked around the room. At the machines. The IV line running into my arm. The window with its grey light.

"The hospital?" I said it like a question. "Did I get sick? I feel so tired."

"You don't—" His voice broke completely. He pressed one hand over his mouth.

I reached for him. Let my fingers brush his wrist. "Kian? You're scaring me. What's wrong?"

"What's the last thing you remember?"

I frowned. Let my eyes drift toward the ceiling like I was searching for something just out of reach.

"We were looking at venues," I said slowly. "For the wedding. You liked the one with the terrace. The view of the park." I smiled at him. "We haven't set a date yet, have we? I keep forgetting to call the coordinator."

Kian made a sound. Low. Broken.

He sank into the chair and buried his face in his hands.

The door opened. A doctor stepped in—older man, silver hair, the kind of calm competence that came from thirty years of delivering bad news.

"Mr. Anderson," he said quietly. "I need to speak with you outside."

Kian didn't move.

"Mr. Anderson."

He lifted his head. Looked at me. Then at the doctor.

He stood and followed him into the corridor.

I lay still and listened.

Their voices carried through the half-open door. Low. Careful.

"Trauma-induced amnesia," the doctor said. "Not uncommon with this level of physical and emotional shock. Her memory appears to be fixed approximately eighteen months prior to the incident."

"Will it come back?"

"Impossible to say. Sometimes these things resolve in days. Sometimes weeks. Sometimes never."

Silence.

"She doesn't remember," Kian said. His voice was hollow. "She doesn't remember any of it."

"No," the doctor said. "And I would strongly advise against forcing the issue. Let her recover at her own pace. Pushing too hard could cause significant psychological damage."

More silence.

Then footsteps moving away down the corridor.

I turned my head toward the window and let my face go still.

Eighteen months ago, Kian and I had been happy. Or I'd believed we were. He'd brought me coffee in bed. Kissed my forehead before work. Held my hand at dinner parties.

Eighteen months ago, I hadn't known about Aleyna.

I smoothed the sheet with both hands and felt the folded paper still tucked inside my coat pocket somewhere in this building. My mother's note. Unread.

I would read it later.

When I was alone.

When I could afford to break.

Kian came back into the room. He sat in the chair and took my hand carefully, like I was made of glass.

"I'm here," he whispered. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

I squeezed his fingers and smiled.

"I love you," I said.

He closed his eyes.

A tear slid down his cheek.

I watched it fall and felt nothing.

The next morning, I heard shouting.

I was lying in bed pretending to sleep when the corridor exploded with noise. A man's voice—rough and furious.

"Where is he?"

Footsteps. Running.

"Sir, you need to calm down—"

"Get out of my way."

My door was closed but I heard everything. Uncle Preston's voice carried like a weapon.

"You."

A thud. Someone hitting a wall.

"Sir—"

"You murdered her." Preston's voice shook. "You stood there and let Margaret die. You ran to that woman and left Eloise bleeding on the floor. You killed my sister. You killed that baby. And you're sitting here like you have the right to grieve?"

Kian said something. Too low to hear.

"I don't want to hear it," Preston snarled. "You don't get to explain. You don't get to make excuses. Margaret is dead because of you. That child is dead because of you. And if Eloise remembers what you did—"

"Security!" A nurse's voice. Sharp.

Scuffling. More footsteps.

"If she remembers," Preston said, "I hope it destroys you."

Then he was gone.

Silence settled over the corridor like dust.

I lay in bed with my eyes closed and filed every word away in the cold place where I kept everything that mattered.

Kian came back into my room an hour later. He sat in the chair and didn't speak.

I opened my eyes and looked at him.

"Did I hear shouting?" I asked softly.

He shook his head. "Nothing. Just someone upset. It's fine."

I reached for his hand.

"I'm glad you're here," I said.

He brought my fingers to his lips and kissed them.

"Always," he whispered.

I smiled.

And behind my eyes, I began to plan.