"I never wanted it. If you thought a child would secure your position, that's honestly laughable."
"I've been busy lately. I don't have time for your melodrama—"
His phone rang before he could finish.
He answered without hesitation, not bothering to step away. "Sophie..."
A voice cut through from the other end. "Rhys, is my birthday surprise ready yet?"
"You said you were just checking on that frumpy wife at the hospital. It's been half an hour—why aren't you back?"
"I heard she was bleeding everywhere? Gross. Hurry back before you get your shoes dirty."
Rhys chuckled softly. "My Sophie, always looking out for me. I'm on my way."
"Your gift is ready. I promise you'll be so surprised you won't be able to get out of bed..."
He walked out while still talking, never glancing back at me.
It didn't occur to him to look at our baby either.
But honestly? I wasn't heartbroken.
Once I confirmed my daughter was safe and healthy, I felt only relief.
Relief that I could finally hold the Abbott family patriarch to his promise.
I called Paul Abbott myself. "Grandpa Paul, the baby is healthy. May I leave now?"
Years ago, when the Abbott empire had teetered on the edge of bankruptcy, the old man had sought me out personally.
My birth chart, he claimed, was perfectly aligned to bring fortune to the Abbott bloodline. If I bore them an heir, their prosperity would be guaranteed for generations.
I was already a medical intern at the time. To anyone with a scientific education, it was superstitious nonsense.
But the wealthy believe what they want to believe.
When I refused, Old Mr. Delgado had my younger brother expelled from his university.
My parents called in tears, sobbing that they'd just been in a car accident—one step closer and they would have died.
I had no choice but to give in.
At the time, I already had a boyfriend. We'd been together for ten years.
He knew the truth. He was still waiting for me.
Old Mr. Delgado sighed. "I've seen the news these past few days. Since a forced marriage yields no sweetness, I'll let you go."
"But you're still weak. I've arranged a professional care team. Leave after your postpartum recovery."
Sophie Pruitt's screaming dragged me back to reality.
I scanned her condition.
Severe lacerations to her lower body, complicated by a raging infection. The tissue had already begun to necrotize. Worse than I'd anticipated.