My Husband’s Mistress Killed My ChildChapter 1
The phone rang just as I finished my rounds. I barely glanced at the screen—Mom. I almost ignored it. But something in my gut twisted.
I answered. “Mom?”
Her voice was a wreck. “Olivia! Celeste—Celeste was hit by a car! Near the school—”
The world tilted. “What?” My clipboard crashed to the floor. My pulse roared in my ears. “Where is she?”
“They’re bringing her to your hospital! Liv, she’s—she’s not waking up—”
“I’m coming!”
I was already running. Shoving through doors, sprinting down hallways. Sirens blared outside as I burst into the ER bay.
The ambulance screeched to a stop. The back doors flew open. Paramedics jumped out, wheeling a small, lifeless body on a gurney.
Blood. So much blood.
“Celeste!” I ran to her, my breath catching.
Her school uniform was soaked red. Her curls clung to her pale face. Her tiny chest barely moved.
“She’s unresponsive. BP’s dropping fast!”
“Trauma One, now!” I snapped, gripping my daughter’s freezing hand as we rushed inside.
Stay focused. Stay in control.
“Push fluids! Get me a trauma ultrasound!”
Her uniform was cut away—bruises everywhere. Her body jerked as we bagged her. The monitor beeped slower.
Too slow.
No.
“Come on, baby,” I whispered. “Stay with me.”
Then—flatline.
A piercing tone. A nightmare.
“Charge to twenty joules.”
“Charged.”
“Clear!”
Her body twitched. The monitor stayed flat.
Again.
“Clear!”
Nothing.
I grabbed her hand, pressing my forehead to it. “Please, Celeste.” My voice broke.
Silence.
The team waited. The clock kept ticking.
"Time of death..." My lips trembled.
My knees buckled. A sob ripped from my throat.
I failed. I lost her.
—
The rain fell in relentless sheets, drumming against the canopy of black umbrellas surrounding the freshly dug grave. My fingers were ice-cold, but I couldn’t tell if it was from the rain or the crushing grief sinking into my bones.
Celeste’s coffin sat in the damp earth, too small, too final.
I barely heard the priest’s prayers. Everything blurred together—the murmurs of condolences, the scent of wet soil, the weight of my loss. But through it all, one thing stood out.
Selena.
She stood close—too close—to Marco. Dressed in a sleek black dress, her expression was carefully composed. No grief, no sadness. Just quiet observation, her eyes lingering on him, not our daughter’s coffin.
Rage bubbled in my chest. Why is she even here?