Chapter 3
At 2 AM, the heart monitor's green glow cast swaying shadows on the wall, like a spectral eye watching everything.
Laura gazed at Trevor sleeping beside her. His phone sat on the nightstand, the screen dark but the wallpaper still theirs—her in a white dress, him kissing her fingertips with that familiar tenderness. The stark contrast between that moment and her current reality cut like a knife.
Laura gently lifted his hand from her waist. Her cold fingers touched the phone in his suit pocket. It surely held all the answers she was looking for. But her heart pounded with hesitation. Her hands were just an inch away from the pocket, trembling slightly.
The heart monitor's green glow flickered in the ward like a ghostly, unblinking eye. Laura stared at it with tears hanging on her eyelashes.
Trevor's steady breathing brushed against her ear, carrying the scent of alcohol. He had drunk half a glass of red wine before bed, claiming it would help him sleep.
Her fingers were still an inch away from his pocket. After her second miscarriage, he whispered in her ear, "We'll have no more babies." His warm breath tinged with that same red wine scent.
The wounds from that time still hadn't healed, and tonight, she stood at another crossroads.
Back then, she thought he was concerned about her. Now she realized it was just because Orion's bone marrow match results hadn't come out yet.
Suddenly, the sharp sting of antiseptic filled the ward. Laura squeezed her eyes shut and reached into his pocket.
The phone was still warm from being pressed against his leg. She held it so tight that the metal shell hurt her palm.
The lock screen was still their wedding photo—him tenderly kissing her fingers, the exact same pose he struck three years ago at their wedding.
Bitterness rose within her. The sharpest knives always hid beneath the sweetest coating.
She wondered if the passcode was her own birthday.
Holding the phone, she remembered that just last week, on their anniversary, he'd complained the passcode was too complicated, so she'd changed it to her own birthday.
But when she entered "1023," the screen showed "incorrect passcode."
Laura held her breath.
She recalled Orion's birthday. Last month, she found a children's birthday party invitation in the inner pocket of Trevor's suit. The date on it was May 17th.
Her finger moved almost on its own, tapping in the numbers. With a soft beep, the screen lit up.
The pinned chat at the top of WhatsApp wasn't hers—it was Zora's.
The top message, sent two hours ago, read: [Orion had a fever again today. The doctor said we need the latest sample.]
Trevor replied: [It's already arranged. It won't go wrong this time.]
Laura clenched her fists so tightly that her nails bit into her palms, her fingers burning with barely contained fury.
Scrolling up, she saw her messages from last week. She cut her hand when cooking and texted: [It hurts a bit.]
He coldly replied: [Ask the maid to take care of it.]
Yet that same day, Zora messaged: [Orion wants the strawberry cake you bought.]
He instantly replied: [On my way. 30 minutes.]
Scrolling further back, when she was hospitalized due to morning sickness during her third pregnancy, he claimed he was too busy with work abroad.
But when Zora said Orion cried during his bone marrow aspiration, he texted at 3 AM: [I booked a flight for tomorrow morning. I'll be there with you both.]
The records contained screenshots of transfer receipts with notes that read "Orion's education fund," "custom jewelry for Zora," and "venue rental for Orion's birthday party." These transfers ranged from hundreds of thousands to over a million dollars.
But last month, when Laura wanted a ten-thousand-dollar necklace, he said, "It's too expensive. We need to save for the baby."
Laura nearly dropped her phone when a new message alert suddenly chimed.
Zora sent a photo. The background was a hospital corridor, and Orion was in a hospital gown, making a peace sign, rosy-cheeked.
She sent: [All his follow-up indicators are normal today. Thanks to the stuff you got last time, the doctor said he could stop the medication after three more months of treatment.]
Laura's gaze froze on the words "the stuff you got." Her throat constricted, as if someone were choking her.
She remembered the day of her miscarriage. After the operating room lights went off, the doctor said, "The embryonic tissue needs to undergo a pathological examination."
Trevor held her hand and said softly, "We'll listen to you, doctor."
Rereading Zora's message, goosebumps rose on the back of Laura's neck. It wasn't a pathological test.
The embryo was used as some kind of special ingredient for Orion.
The phone slipped from Laura's trembling hand and clattered on the nightstand. She covered her mouth, and acid water was surging in her stomach.
She remembered the tonic Trevor brewed for her every day during her pregnancy. He said it was a prenatal tonic. She thought of the doctor's hesitant look after every check-up. Now she knew that her babies weren't born with defects. Someone had been draining vitality from them.
Trevor rolled over in his sleep. His arm draped loosely over her waist.
Laura trembled uncontrollably as she gingerly moved his arm away, as if she were defusing a bomb.
She stepped onto the cold tiles barefoot, the hem of her hospital gown brushing against the icy floor. When she reached the window, she realized she'd put on her oldest beige cardigan without even noticing, while this morning, Trevor had sent Zora a limited-edition mink coat.