The world tilts sideways.

That's the first thing you notice when the sedan's bumper connects with your hip, sending you sprawling across the asphalt like a broken doll. The impact steals your breath, but not the image burned into your retinas.

Marcus. Your husband with his hand resting protectively on her lower back as he guides her into the apartment building. Her belly, round and full—just like yours had been moments ago.

The pain doesn't register immediately. Shock has a funny way of numbing everything, as you lie there on the cold pavement.

You don't scream. You can't. The air has been knocked from your lungs, but more than that—something inside you has just shattered. Not just your ribs, not just your pelvis. It's something deeper. Something that lived in the space between your heartbeats, in the curve of your smile when he kissed your forehead each morning, in the way you'd whisper to your unborn baby about what a wonderful father daddy would be.

The sirens sound distant, muffled. Like you're underwater.

"Baby? can you hear me?"

His voice cuts through the haze of morphine and grief. You don't open your eyes. You won't open your eyes. Because if you do, you'll have to see his face—that beautiful, lying face that's probably twisted with concern right now. Probably looks so convincing that even you might believe he actually cares.

"The doctors say you're going to be okay" he continues, and you can hear the chair scraping closer to your hospital bed. "God, when I got the call...I've never been so scared in my life..."

You keep your breathing steady, even. Let him think you're still unconscious. It's easier this way. Easier than having to look at him and pretend you don't know. Easier than having to hear whatever lie he's prepared about where he was when you needed him most.

His fingers brush against your hand, and you have to fight every instinct not to pull away. His touch used to set you on fire. Now it just makes your skin crawl.

"The baby..." his voice cracks, and for a moment—just a moment—you almost believe the pain in it is real. "I'm so sorry, I'm so fucking sorry..."

You just lie there, staring into the darkness behind your eyelids, and let him paint himself as the grieving father, the devoted husband who's falling apart at your bedside.

"I won't leave you" he whispers, pressing his lips to your knuckles. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

Promises. Like the one he made at the altar. Like the one he whispered against your skin on your wedding night. Like the one he breathed into your ear just last week when you told him you could feel the baby kicking.

He brings you home three days later, and the house feels like a mausoleum. Everything exactly as you left it—except for the nursery. The door is closed now, and you know without looking that he's already packed everything away.

"Are you hungry?" he asks, hovering near the couch where he's arranged approximately seventeen different pillows for your comfort. "I can make that soup you like. Or order something. Whatever you want, baby."

You don't answer. Haven't spoken since you woke up.

Marcus—your perfect husband, your successful CEO with his corner office and his charity galas and his damnit pregnant mistress—is not used to being ignored. He's used to your laughter, your chatter, your constant need for his attention and affection. He's used to being the center of your universe.

Now you won't even look at him.

"Sweetheart, please" he tries again, crouching beside the couch so he's at eye level. "Talk to me. I know you're in pain, I know this is..."

You turn your head away, focusing on the window instead. On the tree in your backyard where you'd planned to hang a swing someday. Where your child would have played.

His hand finds your cheek, tries to turn your face back toward him, but you flinch away from his touch like it burns. Which it does, in a way. Every gentle caress feels like another lie, another manipulation.

"I love you..." he says desperately. "Damn, I love you so much, just please don't shut me out. Not now, we need each other."