The office was too bright, too sterile. Everything about it set my teeth on edge. I didn’t belong in rooms like this — I belonged in shadows, boardrooms, and battlefields. But she did. And because she did, I was here.

I kept my arm across the back of her chair, my hand covering hers. She thought I wouldn’t notice the way her fingers shook, but I felt it. My thumb moved over her knuckles in slow circles. Stay calm, amore. I’ve got you.

The doctor came in with his folder. He looked like a man about to deliver bad news — shoulders tense, eyes darting, throat clearing before he spoke. I’d seen it too many times. He sat, folding his hands, pretending composure.

“Mr. and Mrs. Moretti,” he started.

I cut him off with a tilt of my chin. “Skip the pleasantries. Tell us.”

He glanced at her, then back to me, then down at his papers again. That hesitation made my jaw tighten. If he didn’t speak, I’d make him.

Finally, the words came out, careful and clipped. “Her results show that… conception will be extremely difficult. Medically speaking… she is infertile.”

The room went silent.

I felt her body stiffen next to me, her hand twitch under mine. She lowered her gaze, shoulders curling inward like she’d just been struck. And maybe she had.

My first instinct was rage. To tear the folder from his hands, to put a hole in the wall, to make the man regret ever putting that broken look on her face. But rage wouldn’t fix her tears. And she mattered more than vengeance. Always.

I turned to her, took her chin in my hand, lifted her face until her eyes met mine. Wet, red-rimmed, trembling. God, it gutted me.