Chapter 1
The day Sebastian Foster's first love returned to the country, I was in the hospital, getting an IV.
He abandoned me, right before I was about to give birth, and rushed off in the middle of the night to pick her up at the airport.
I spent fourteen hours alone in the delivery room, wracked with pain, and after our daughter was born, I suffered a severe hemorrhage.
The moment I woke up after being resuscitated, the first thing I did was call him to tell him the good news.
But instead of his voice, I heard his first love's shy, playful tone on the other end.
"Sebastian, stop it. Be gentle..."
I calmly hung up the phone and left the hospital with our daughter in my arms.
A month later, Sebastian kicked open my door, his eyes bloodshot.
"Serena, where are you taking my daughter?" he shouted.
I smiled and pointed at the wedding cars downstairs.
"Mr. Foster, step aside. Don't get in the way of my big day." I said.
*****
The induction drip was set to the highest speed, and the contractions crashed over me, sharp and relentless. I clung to the bedsheets, my knuckles turning white.
The man at the next bed was feeding his wife broth, blowing on each spoonful before gently bringing it to her lips.
His clumsy hands made her frown, but he kept coaxing her, "Be good, just one more bite. You need your strength to get through this."
I turned away, burying my face in the pillow.
My phone lit up with a message from Sebastian.
[She's back. I'm going to pick her up.]
The words, no punctuation, just a cold notification.
I stared at the screen for a long time, until another contraction hit and I curled up in pain.
The nurse came in to check on me, her expression changing. "Why hasn't anyone signed the consent form? Where's your family for the C-section?"
"He's not coming," I said.
The nurse paused, her eyes filled with a hint of sympathy, but also that look of someone who'd seen it all before, like this was nothing new to her.
Someone was on the phone out in the hallway, their voice drifting in and out. "Yeah, Mr. Foster went to pick her up himself. Took her straight from the airport to the villa..."
I closed my eyes.
I first met Sebastian when I was eighteen.
He was the only son of the Foster family, and I was the daughter of their housekeeper.
My mom had worked for them for twelve years, and I'd lived in the servants' quarters of their mansion for just as long.
He never spoke to me. If we passed each other in the hallway, his gaze would slide right over me, like I was just another piece of furniture.
The only time he ever spoke to me was that summer when I was nineteen.
He was drunk, his friends dropped him off, and he stumbled into the side yard.
I was out there collecting clothes when he suddenly grabbed my wrist and pinned me against the wall.
His eyes were red, his voice hoarse. "Why did you leave?"
I knew he had mistaken me for someone else. He was asking about his first love, Rosalind Shaw—the girl who'd left to study overseas three months ago.
I didn't explain.
Later, when he finally sobered up, he looked at me—his eyes clearing, then turning into something I couldn't quite read.
And after that, there was that night.
He never said he liked me, and I never asked him for anything.
But after that, he'd sometimes show up in the side yard, watching me brew tea or fix a button on his shirt.
My mom would say, "Serena, don't be foolish."
I'd reply, "Mom, I'm not stupid."
I knew he didn't love me. But for those two years, he was my whole world.
The delivery room door swung open and shut again and again, the restless motion echoing the tension in the air.
Nurses kept coming in and out, asking if anyone had come for me.
I just shook my head. They asked if I wanted a C-section, but I told them I'd do it myself.
After a while, I couldn't even tell if the pain was in my body or my heart.
All I knew was my water had broken, then dried up, but the baby just wouldn't come.
The doctor didn't hesitate. He rushed me straight into surgery.
"We need to do a C-section now. If we wait, it's dangerous for both you and the baby," the doctor urged.
I lay on the gurney, watching the ceiling lights blur past, their cold white glare making my eyes ache.
Before I was wheeled into the operating room, I sent Sebastian a message.
[I'm giving birth.]
Sent.
No reply.
The operating room was cold.
As the anesthetic went into my spine, I couldn't stop shivering. It wasn't pain—it was a chill that seemed to leak from my bones.
The surgeon, a woman in her forties, prepped for surgery and asked, "Where's the baby's father?"
"He's tied up," I replied.
She let it go.
But her silence stung more than any question.
When the baby was delivered, I heard a tiny cry. The nurse held her up for me to see. "It's a girl, about seven pounds."
I reached out to touch her, but my hand fell limp halfway there.
Blood started to pour out.
Massive hemorrhage.