Page 46 of Say You're Mine

A soft knock at the door startles me from my reverie. Natalie enters, her face drawn with exhaustion and worry.

"Any news?" I ask, not daring to hope.

She hesitates, and my heart leaps into my throat. "Nat? What is it?"

"We've received a message," she says carefully. "It's coded, but... it says the extraction was successful. June is safe."

Relief floods through me, so intense I have to grip the edge of the crib to stay upright. But it's quickly followed by a wave of dread.

"Where is he?" I demand. "When can I see him?"

Natalie's expression is carefully neutral. "Not yet, Cara. They need time to... assess his condition. To start undoing what Faulkner did."

The unspoken words hang heavy between us. To make sure he won't hurt you.

"But he's okay?" I press, desperation clawing at my throat. "He's... he's still June?"

Natalie squeezes my hand. "From what they can tell, yes. But Cara... we need to be prepared. He's been through hell. It might take time for him to be the June we knew."

I nod, tears stinging my eyes. "I know. I just... I need to see him. To hold him. To know he's real."

"Soon," Natalie promises. "For now, we need to lay low. Elaine's on the warpath."

The next few weeks are an agonizing blur. We remain in Dante's home, a gilded cage that feels more suffocating with each passing day. There are no phone calls, no messages - just a deafening silence that threatens to drive me mad.

I spend my days in a haze of worry and anticipation. Every creak of the floorboards, every shadow at the window, sends my heart racing. Is it news about June? Or has Elaine finally found us?

Alonzo, Dante's most trusted lieutenant, brings us daily reports. Elaine's reach is long, her fury palpable even from a distance. Police in her pocket have ransacked my mother's house, and private investigators lurk on every corner of our old neighborhood.

"She's desperate," Dante muses one evening, his eyes dark with calculation. "Which makes her dangerous."

I pace the floors at night, one hand always on my growing belly, whispering promises to our child. Promises of safety, of family, of a father who will move heaven and earth to come home to us.

But as the days stretch into weeks, doubt begins to creep in. What if June isn't recovering? What if Faulkner's damage is too deep, too permanent? What if...

No. I can't let myself think that way. June is fighting. He has to be. And when he's ready, when it's safe, we'll be together again.

I have to believe that. It's the only thing keeping me sane.

The weeks drag on, each day blending into the next in a haze of worry and monotony. My body, once a source of wonder and excitement as our child grew within me, now feels like a ticking time bomb.

"Your blood pressure is too high," Dr. Ramirez says, her brow furrowed as she reviews my latest test results. "The preeclampsia is getting worse, Cara. We need to be vigilant."

I nod numbly, barely registering her words about bed rest and increased monitoring. All I can think about is June, wondering if he's safe, if he's healing, if he even remembers me.

Natalie hovers constantly, her worry palpable. "You need to rest, Cara," she insists, fluffing pillows and adjusting blankets like a mother hen. "Let us take care of you."

But their concern, well-intentioned as it is, only adds to my stress. I feel smothered, trapped not just by the four walls of this room but by the weight of everyone's expectations. Be calm, be strong, be the perfect expectant mother while your whole world is falling apart.

One morning, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back at me. Dark circles shadow my eyes, my skin is sallow and broken out in angry red spots. This isn't the radiant pregnancy glow I'd dreamed of. This is the face of a woman barely holding it together.

"Some glow," I mutter, tracing a finger over a particularly angry pimple on my chin. "More like a warning light."

"You're beautiful," Mama insists, catching me frowning at my reflection. "Glowing like the Madonna herself."

I try to smile, to accept her comfort, but it feels hollow. How can I feel beautiful when I'm falling apart inside?

The days crawl by, each one a test of endurance. I try to focus on the baby, on the miracle growing inside me, but even that joy is tainted by fear and uncertainty. Will June be here to see our child born? Will he ever know the fierce love I feel every time I feel a kick or a roll?

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