Through the jostling crowd, I caught a glimpse of Ruth's face.
She was smiling.
A smile of pure, triumphant malice.
I lifted my head slightly, and a reporter—catching some unspoken signal—swung his camera toward the nurse's arms, firing off shot after shot of my daughter.
"Holy shit, this is the bastard kid? Ugly little thing. Mrs. Sanchez really isn't picky about whose bed she crawls into."
"Like mother, like daughter—you can see the moral rot from a mile away. Get more shots. We'll use them for cutaways later. Title it 'The Mistress's Spawn.' Guaranteed headline."
Rage detonated in my chest.
My palm connected with his face before I could think.
I hadn't even hit him hard—but he crumpled to the floor and went still.
"Oh God—Giles Chavez has a heart condition! You can't touch him!"
"He's not breathing! Murderer!"
A reporter jabbed a finger at me, eyes blazing with a hatred that could have drawn blood.
"Don't touch her." Cyril's voice cut through the chaos, cold and final. "Any issues go through my lawyers."
The words had barely left his mouth when Ruth clutched her abdomen again, her face twisting in pain.
"Cyril... I got too worked up. I think my stitches tore..."
I stood frozen, my daughter pressed to my chest, and looked at him.
Helpless. Desperate.
His gaze lingered on us for one long, unreadable moment.
Then he bent down, scooped Ruth into his arms, and said to me:
"Wait for me."
His back disappeared down the corridor.
And I was left behind—surrounded by a mob of furious reporters—as cold steel handcuffs clicked around my wrists.
Three months later. The Criminal Court.
"This court finds the defendant, Ms. Samantha Pruitt, guilty of involuntary manslaughter. She is hereby sentenced to five years' imprisonment and ordered to pay three million dollars in compensation."
