As soon as he finished speaking, he felt something was off, and slowly said, "I'm sorry."
Regardless of whether it was intentional or unintentional, he had to take full responsibility.
Jasmine Yale didn't respond; she was in so much pain that she couldn't utter a single word, beads of sweat dripped from her forehead, and even her back was soaked.
She had her eyes closed, nestled quietly in Sylvan Cheney's arms, not moving at all.
The car sped through the night.
Sylvan Cheney lifted his hand, gently brushing away the damp strands of hair from her forehead. In the dim light, he saw a face as pale as paper.
Gone was the usual happy, bouncing image.
How could he have extinguished the optimistic, cheerful, lively Jasmine Yale…
The image of her smiling lingered in his mind, especially when he accompanied her for prenatal check-ups; she was cheerful throughout, smiled at him, and even teasingly called him "husband" in front of the doctor.
