The nursery had been his pride and joy once. Carson had arranged every detail—the crib, the quilts, the shelf of tiny books. I had walked into that room and imagined lullabies and soft hands brushing my hair. Now the same room felt like a theater set redesigned for someone else’s life.
When I opened the door and saw Alice curled up in the crib—absurd, almost obscene—something snapped. My hands moved before my brain did. I snatched at her, furious, protective, as if by taking her out of the crib I might wring truth from her smug little face.
Carson slammed his palm over my wrist and snarled, “What’s wrong with you? You act like a lunatic every time you come in.”
His grip loosened when he saw my eyes—wild, desperate. “Are you really going to give this room to her?” I asked, voice breaking.
He hesitated. “Alice likes it here. She’ll stay for a while.”
“Do you remember when you promised this room would always be for our pup?” I said, every word a splinter. “Do you remember the promise to protect us?”