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“He doesn’t want that, luv. He wants to see his princess.”

“I don’t want to see him. I failed to do…”

She swallowed hard, her throat clicking in the quiet room. Her knuckles turned white against the hospital gown. The toxic, suffocating guilt that so often followed a violent assault showed up.

I expected it. Between that guilt, the trauma, and post-partum hormones, the poor girl couldn’t catch a break. All of it was crashing through her system like a tsunami.

It would distort her reality, telling her that her broken body was to blame instead of the monster who attacked her. My professional training told me to challenge the cognitive distortion.

But my heart just wanted to wrap her in a blanket and carry her away from this hell. I had to walk the tightrope between both.

“That’s the old script talking, Bellaruso. You know it well. It’s a familiar companion. I’d guess right now it’s shouting at you. Telling you everything bad in this world is your fault.”

“It is,” she choked.

“The old script is a liar. We spent the better part of a year and a half burying that voice, didn’t we?”

“This is different,” she whispered, a single tear finally spilling over her lashes, tracing a path down a pale cheek that still bore the dark blue and purple marks and bruises.

“They’re gone.”

“They are,” I corroborated, refusing to minimize the agonizing reality of the twins. “And it is horribly, brutally unfair. But Pasha doesn’t blame you. He blames himself. He’s grieving too.”

She pulled her knees up, folding into herself, the ultimate posture of withdrawal.

“Leave me alone. Please. Just go.”

I looked at the fierce, resilient woman who had fought tooth and nail to reclaim herself over the last year and a half. The urge to hug her was overwhelming, but I knew the clinical boundaries were a safety net for her. At least for now.

And the truth was, if I crumbled, she would lose her anchor. I stood up slowly, ensuring my movements weren’t abrupt. I walked over to the bedside cabinet and placed a fresh box of tissues within her reach.

“I’ll honor your wishes. I’ll tell Pasha that you aren’t ready for visitors yet. Because it is okay to not be ready. But we will get through this.”

Finally…she looked at me, but only for a heartbeat. Her eyes closed again, and her bottom lip trembled. After a while, I reached into my satchel and pulled out her sketchpad.

I had grabbed it from her home studio before coming in. That and her favorite graphite pencil. I laid it on the bedside table.

“Just in case.”

She looked at it. Only for a second. Then turned back toward the window.

“I’ll come back tomorrow.”

She remained quiet.

“And the next, and—”

“I’m getting released tomorrow.”

“Okay, I assume you’ll be going to your mum and dad’s?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll swing by—”

“Don’t bother. Take the damn sketchbook with you, along with the pencil. I don’t need to draw. More importantly, I don’t need to talk about my feelings.”

I paused at the door, looking back at her small silhouette against the hospital sheets.