Chapter 1

I lay on the cold operating table, legs apart, waiting for the doctor to end this humiliation. Then, the overhead lights suddenly snapped off.

And there my own husband Victor was, careful and doting, escorting his precious love, as well as my best friend, for her prenatal checkup.

Three years of marriage, and Victor hardly stood to be intimate. Every time, he'd give me these "vitamin" pills with a glass of water, saying I was too frail for a baby.

Turned out I was just his convenient cover, and the pills were a carefully calculated dose of medication designed to keep me barren.

The overhead lights suddenly blazed back on. I tried to say something, but my throat had closed up, blocked by something cold and stiff.

I... My voice was a wreck, a broken whisper. "I can't do this. I'm keeping the baby."

*****

I lay on the cold operating table, legs apart, waiting for the doctor to end this humiliation. Then, the overhead lights suddenly snapped off.

The room plunged into dead silence and total darkness.

All I could hear was the occasional clatter of cold metal instruments and my heart thundering in my chest.

"Power failure! Backup generator coming online," the nurse called out, a trace of panic in her voice.

In the suffocating blackness, every second felt like an eternity.

The sound of footsteps outside the soundproof door cut through the silence, and then a voice spoke—one I would recognize anywhere. But the gentle, coaxing tone it held now sent a chill straight to my core.

"Don't be scared. It's just a routine checkup. Relax, Emily," the man said.

It was Victor. Victor Sinclair, my husband.

He was supposed to be hundreds of miles away at a crucial merger meeting. He wasn't meant to be here.

And he sure as hell shouldn't be using that velvety tone, the kind that could drown someone in tenderness, on another woman.

Hearing that name, Emily, was like a stab to the heart. I doubled over from the pain, a wave of heavy, cramping pressure blooming in my abdomen.

"Mr. Sinclair, you're so considerate to accompany Mrs. Sinclair to every appointment," a man, presumably the doctor, gushed. "Mrs. Sinclair, rest assured, the baby's developing perfectly. Just hear the strong heartbeat."

"Mm," Victor replied softly, his voice carrying a gentle smile. "Thank you for taking such good care of them, Dr. Warren."

"Mrs. Sinclair is so lucky..." Dr. Warren added.

I listened as their conversation faded, heading in the direction of the VIP maternity suite. The irony was a physical blow.

"Mrs. Sinclair is so lucky"?

Here I was, lying alone on a cold operating table, losing the baby we had conceived "by chance". And there my own husband Victor was, careful and doting, escorting his precious love, as well as my best friend, for her prenatal checkup.

According to them, the baby was his. And it was perfectly healthy.

What a cruel joke.

Three years of marriage, and Victor hardly stood to be intimate. Every time, he'd give me these "vitamin" pills with a glass of water, saying I was too frail for a baby.

I was a fool to believe him, taking the pills and waiting for "the right time".

So, when I actually got pregnant, he called it a "mistake." He didn't even blink, just looked at me with this cold, hard expression and told me to "get rid of it." He said it wasn't the right time.

Naturally, he was too busy to come to the appointment himself.

And Emily, who was suddenly so concerned about me, offered to come with me. But when the clinic required a signature on the consent form, she had a sudden "work emergency" and dashed off.

Turned out her emergency was a prenatal appointment of her own—one where my husband, Victor, was the doting, attentive partner.

The overhead lights suddenly blazed back on, harsh and white, stabbing straight into my eyes.

"Ms. Summers? Are you alright? You look so pale." The lead surgeon's mask covered everything but her eyes, and all I could see was that clinical concern shining through.

I tried to answer, but my throat had closed up, blocked by something cold and stiff. Words were impossible. All that came out was a flood of hot tears, streaming down my temples and into my hair.

"I..." My voice was a wreck, a broken whisper. "I can't do this. I'm not doing this."

"What?" The doctor and nurse both froze in shock.

I forced my fists to unclench, my nails leaving deep crescents in my palms. The sharp pain was the only thing holding back the wave of despair. "This baby," I gasped, the words tearing out of me. "I'm keeping it.

Ignoring their protests, I forced myself upright. The room tilted, and a blade of pure agony twisted in my abdomen, but the pain was a distant thing. I all but fell from the table, my legs refusing to hold me.

Each step was a shard of glass grinding in my womb. Bracing against the wall's icy plaster, I staggered into the corridor. I was no longer just a patient; I was a force of nature, stumbling inexorably toward the VIP maternity ward.