The Divorced Architect's Spectacular Comeback

The sharp smell of antiseptic hit her nostrils. Crista forced her eyes open, squinting against the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights above.

Beep. Beep. Beep. The rhythmic sound of the heart monitor filled the room. She tried to move her fingers and felt the tug of an IV line taped to the back of her hand.

The door to the room opened. Dr. Thorne walked in, a medical chart in his hand. He paused, a look of surprise crossing his face when he saw her open eyes.

He walked quickly to the bedside, pulling out a small penlight. He shone it into her eyes, checking her pupils. "Crista? Can you hear me? Does anything hurt?"

Her lips were dry and cracked. She parted them, her voice a rough whisper. "Where... where am I? What happened?"

The doctor sighed, his expression turning serious. "You're at Mount Sinai Hospital. You've been in a coma for a full week. The Coast Guard pulled you out of the water."

A sharp pain lanced through her brain. The suffocating feeling of the water, Conrad's resolute back as he walked away-the memories crashed over her. She squeezed her eyes shut, a groan escaping her lips.

"Crista," Dr. Thorne said, his tone heavy. He flipped open the chart. "There's something I need to tell you. You were pregnant. Eight weeks along."

Her eyes flew open. Her hand flew to her flat stomach, disbelief washing over her face, followed instantly by a rush of tears.

"I'm so sorry," the doctor continued, his voice cutting through her momentary joy like a knife. "The severe hypothermia and trauma caused an inevitable miscarriage. We did everything we could, but the fetus was already gone when the Coast Guard found you."

"No..." She reached out, grabbing the front of the doctor's white coat, her knuckles white. "Please. Tell me you're wrong. Tell me my baby is still there. Please!"

Dr. Thorne gently pried her fingers loose, patting her hand. "We're doing everything we can to help your body recover. I'm giving you medication to prevent infection and stop any further hemorrhaging. But you must stay in bed. Absolute rest is required for your traumatized body." He gave her one last sympathetic look and left the room.

The room fell silent. Crista lay there, her hand resting on her flat stomach. A suffocating wave of grief pressed down on her chest. She had to tell Conrad. Maybe if he knew about the baby they had just lost, the child he had unknowingly killed, he would finally see the truth.

She leaned over, ignoring the pull of the IV, and grabbed her phone from the nightstand. The screen lit up. No missed calls. No messages.

A heavy weight settled in her chest, but she bit the bullet and dialed Conrad's private number.

It rang for a long time. Finally, the line clicked. But the voice that answered wasn't Conrad's.

It was Else. A giggling, laugh. "Hello? Sister?"

Crista's blood ran cold. Her hand tightened around the phone. "Where is Conrad? Let me talk to him."

Else laughed again, a sound full of cruel triumph. "He's right here. He's peeling an apple for me. He's been by my side this whole week, Crista. He doesn't care if you live or die."

To prove her point, Else called out, her voice sickeningly sweet, "Conrad! My sister is on the phone!"

Then, Conrad's voice came through the receiver. It was cold, impatient, and utterly devoid of emotion. "Tell her, unless she signs the divorce papers, don't bother me."

The words hit Crista like a physical blow. The phone slipped from her numb fingers, landing silently on the blanket.

The door to the room burst open. Audrey rushed in, her face flushed, her eyes red and puffy.

"Crista!" Audrey ran to the bed, taking in her friend's pale face. She burst into tears. "That bastard! That absolute bastard!"

Crista grabbed Audrey's hand, tears finally spilling over. "I was pregnant, Audrey," she choked out, her voice breaking into a sob. "And I lost the baby. But he just wants a divorce."

Audrey gasped, her face draining of color. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a crumpled square of glossy paper. "While you were unconscious, I went to your apartment to get your things. I found this ultrasound picture in your bag. You were going to surprise him, weren't you?"

Crista looked at the blurry image and squeezed her eyes shut, unable to speak. Audrey's face then twisted in rage. "I've already contacted my cousin, Caleb Arnold. He's one of the best trauma surgeons here at Mount Sinai. He's going to make sure you get the best care while I go deal with that bastard!" She stood up, rolling up her sleeves. "Where is he? I'm going to go give that son of a bitch a piece of my mind!"

Crista looked up, confused. "What are you talking about?"

Audrey pointed angrily toward the door. "They're in this hospital! Else is in the VIP suite at the end of the hall. 'Severe ankle sprain observation,' my ass. He's been playing nurse with her while you were dying!"

The realization hit Crista like a bucket of ice water. He was right there. Just a few steps away. And he hadn't come.

The grief in her eyes slowly hardened into something cold and sharp. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, her jaw setting. She placed both hands protectively over her stomach.

"Get me a wheelchair, Audrey," she commanded, her voice weak but firm. "I'm not lying here while he plays happy family. I'm going to see him."