My Husband Framed Me After Childbirth,Now He’s Begging a Grave for ForgivenessChapter 1

The day I gave birth to my daughter, my husband threw a paternity test in my face—one that said he wasn't the father.

His voice dripped with wounded outrage.

"Samantha Pruitt, I gave you everything. How could you humiliate me like this?"

"We're done. I want the $88,000 bride price back by the end of the month. Take your bastard and get out. I never want to see either of you again."

I held my sleeping newborn against my chest.

No tears. No begging.

Just a calm nod.

After all, I'd heard everything last night—standing outside the delivery room, invisible, while his precious adopted sister clung to his arm.

"Cyril Sanchez," Ruth Sanchez had whined, her voice dripping with sweetness, "my dying wish is to have you all to myself for one year. Just like when we were kids. Can't you send her away? Just for a little while?"

And my husband—my husband—had gazed at her like she hung the moon.

"Silly girl, don't talk like that. You'll be fine after the appendectomy. And yes—this whole year, I'll be yours alone."

I'd been lying on the operating table when I heard it. Tears slid silently into my hair.

He didn't know.

The man who'd waited ten years for me was coming tomorrow.

Not just for a year. This time, I was never coming back.

1.

Ruth jabbed a manicured finger toward my daughter, gasping with theatrical horror.

"Oh my God, Cyril—no wonder she looked wrong to me. She's a bastard."

Her voice rang through the room, shrill and performative. One razor-sharp acrylic nail pressed into my baby's delicate cheek, leaving a tiny red mark.

"God, she's hideous. All wrinkled like a little old man." Ruth's lip curled. "They say daughters take after their fathers. Guess you're not picky, sis—you'll spread your legs for anyone."

Cyril's expression was ice. Distant. Like I was a stranger who'd wandered into his life by accident.

"Samantha. Since this child isn't a Sanchez, she doesn't deserve this room." His gaze swept over me without warmth. "Take your bastard and get out. Now."

I looked at Ruth—draped head to toe in Chanel couture, a single diamond on her stiletto worth more than a hundred nights in this VIP suite.

Then I looked at myself.

I'd been wheeled out of surgery alone. No nurse. No aide. Just me, still bleeding, holding my newborn with shaking arms.

A bitter laugh caught in my throat.