The bedroom smelled of stale lavender and the heavy, metallic scent of blood.

I sat on the edge of our unmade king-sized bed, clutching Ethan to my chest.

He was only four days old, his skin still slightly wrinkled.

My husband, Ryan, zipped his leather duffel bag with a sharp, decisive tug.

“It’s just a weekend in Aspen, Emma,” he said, not looking at me.

“The investors are already there, and I need to close this deal.”

“I can’t stand up yet without feeling dizzy, Ryan,” I whispered.

My voice sounded thin, even to my own ears, lost in the high ceilings of our master suite.

“The doctor said I need to rest and keep an eye on my blood pressure.”

Ryan adjusted his Rolex and finally turned to face me.

His handsome face was tight with annoyance, his jaw clenched.

“My mother is only a twenty-minute drive away,” he said.

“If you need something, call Margaret.”

“You know how she is,” I said, a tear slipping down my cheek.

“She doesn’t want to help. She wants to control everything, and she hates that I kept Ethan away from her yesterday.”

Ryan shrugged into his dark cashmere overcoat.

“You’re being dramatic, as usual,” he said.

He leaned down, kissed my forehead coldly, and walked out of the room.

The heavy oak front door clicked shut downstairs, echoing through the empty house.

A moment later, his Porsche engine roared to life in the snowy Denver driveway.

Then, there was only the silence of the winter morning.

I tried to shift Ethan to my other arm to comfort him.

A sudden, hot rush of liquid pooled beneath me on the white sheets.

I looked down and saw a dark, spreading stain of crimson.

Panic flared in my chest, hot and sharp.

I tried to stand, but my legs felt like lead.

The room spun, the corners of my vision instantly darkening.

“Ryan,” I choked out, though I knew he was already miles away on I-70.

I managed to lay Ethan safely in his wooden bassinet beside the bed.

He began to cry, his tiny fists waving in the cold air.