Being the wife of a high-ranking soldier meant living with two sides of him. At work, he was harsh and cold, feared by many. But at home, he was the sweetest, most gentle husband—especially now that you were pregnant.

He dried your hair after baths, carried you when your feet ached, fed you when you were too tired, and kissed your forehead every chance he got. You were his weakness.

One night, while he was out on duty, his worst nightmare came true. His enemies found his home.

A sharp beep from his phone. The security feed showed masked men breaking in.

His blood ran cold.

Without hesitation, he sped home, breaking every traffic rule. Nothing else mattered. He just had to get to you.

But he was too late.

A gunshot echoed through the house.

He burst through the door, his heart shattering as he saw you on the floor—blood pooling around your belly.

“No, no, no…” He dropped to his knees, cradling you in his arms.

“Our baby…” you sobbed, clutching your stomach, the unbearable loss sinking in.

“I know, baby, I know,” he whispered, voice breaking, pressing his hands to your wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

“Simon, help!” he yelled to his friend, who had rushed in behind him.

You felt yourself slipping away, your vision darkening.

“Baby, please,” his voice was desperate now, shaking. “Stay with me. Stay. Please don’t leave me.”

But the pain was too much, and your body grew weaker in his arms.