I was still sitting numbly on the bed when the door burst open. Harry rushed in, his face a mask of concern.
"Clarissa," he breathed, his voice softening as he approached me with a single rose in hand. "I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy planning our anniversary that I almost forgot your injection today."
He knelt beside me, his warm hand covering mine as he placed the rose in my lap. "You’ve been so strong through all this," he murmured, his dark eyes searching mine. "Let me handle it this time."
Before I could respond, he gently took the syringe from the doctor’s hand, dismissing her with a polite nod. "I’ll do it myself," he said.
Harry had insisted on giving me my injections personally from the start. He’d even gone so far as to take lessons on administering them. It was one of the many ways he’d shown his "love."
But now, as he prepared the needle, his touch careful and practiced,
The room was filled with a comforting warmth as Harry held me close, his voice soothing, his presence steady. Yet beneath the rich aroma of roses lingering in the air, I caught a whiff of something foreign—perfume that wasn’t mine. My stomach churned, unease creeping in.