When he left, Solenne’s smile vanished.
She quietly went to the bathroom, cleaned herself up—and then she couldn’t sit still anymore. She booked a cab and rushed to the hospital.
She had just received the news that she was pregnant and hadn't had time to tell him
On the ride there, her mind was a mess.
All this time, she never doubted that Rockwell loved her and that he’d marry her someday.
He once told her he was willing to run away with her and build a life together. She’d even pictured herself carrying his child, imagining the three of them as a family.
She loved him. She wanted his children. hoping that when the pregnancy test came back positive, it would be a surprise he’d be happy about.
Her face went pale. She didn’t know how long she stood there in silence.
But eventually, she made up her mind.
“Doctor,” she said quietly, “I’d like to schedule an abortion.”
Solenne stepped out of the hospital, still clutching the report in her hand, dazed and hollow.
The abortion was scheduled for eight in the morning tomorrow.
She had wanted this child so badly. Now, she didn’t want it at all.
What was once a long-awaited surprise had become a suffocating burden.
She drifted home like a ghost. Hungry, but with no appetite, she decided to cook something anyway—just to keep busy.
Halfway through, she accidentally knocked over a pan left on the burner.
With a loud clang, hot oil splattered everywhere, catching her hand.
“Ah!” she cried out in pain, unable to hold it in.
“Babe! What happened?”
Right then, Rockwell walked in. He’d just gotten home and immediately heard her scream.
Panic shot through him as he rushed into the kitchen.
There she was—on the floor, surrounded by the mess. His face changed instantly.
“You burned yourself? Come with me. I’m taking you to the hospital.” His voice was rushed and full of concern.
Without waiting for a response, he scooped her up and carried her out.
At the hospital, he stayed by her side the entire time, not leaving for even a second while the doctor checked and treated her injury.
“Next time, wait for me to come back and cook. These hands of yours are made for painting, not for kitchen accidents. What if the injury had been worse?”
His eyes were full of worry as he looked at her red, scalded hand.
Something about his expression tugged at her heart.