The morning light filtered through the hospital blinds, casting prison-bar shadows across my bed. I'd barely slept, my mind replaying the escape plan I'd formulated over the past three days. But before I could put it into action, the door burst open.
Luke strode in, flanked by two men in dark suits—his personal security, not hospital staff. His eyes were cold, his jaw set in that way that always made my stomach clench with fear.
"Get up," he commanded, tossing a folded garment onto my bed. "We have a schedule to keep."
I stared at the item—a hospital gown, but not the standard kind. This one was designed for maximum exposure, with open sides and a shortened front that would leave me completely vulnerable.
"This is... inappropriate," I whispered, my fingers clutching my current gown.
Luke's laugh was sharp and humorless. "Inappropriate? Mya, you're about to be the star of a medical breakthrough. Modesty is irrelevant."
When I didn't move quickly enough, he stepped forward, gripping my shoulder with bruising force. "Don't make this difficult."
His touch sent a wave of nausea through me—not just from my condition, but from the revulsion of knowing what he'd done. What they'd all done.
"Please," I begged, hating the tremor in my voice. "At least let me wear something decent underneath."
"Fine," he snapped, checking his watch impatiently. "But make it quick."
I changed with trembling hands, slipping the humiliating gown over my head while Luke watched with clinical detachment. The fabric was thin and cheap, designed to be easily removed during "treatment." I could feel his eyes tracking every movement, assessing me like livestock before an auction.
"Ready?" he asked, though it wasn't really a question.
Two guards materialized at my elbows, guiding me toward the elevator. Luke walked ahead, his posture radiating confidence and control. The hospital corridors that had seemed so intimidating before now felt like a gauntlet—every step taking me closer to public humiliation.
"Remember," Luke said as we approached the auditorium doors, "no speaking unless directly addressed. No sudden movements."
The doors swung open to reveal the hospital's grand auditorium transformed into something from a nightmare. The stage had been converted into a state-of-the-art delivery room, with bright lights and cameras positioned at every angle. Rows of chairs were filled with journalists, medical professionals, and what looked like hospital board members.
And at the center of it all stood Clare, resplendent in custom-tailored medical scrubs that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent.
"My colleagues, distinguished guests," she began, her voice carrying effortlessly through the space. "Today marks a historic moment in medical science."
As Luke and the guards escorted me toward the stage, Clare's eyes found mine. Her smile didn't reach her eyes—they remained cold and calculating as she gestured to the bed that awaited me.
"Our patient suffers from a unique condition that has baffled medical experts for years," she continued. "But today, through groundbreaking techniques and my specialized training, we will demonstrate a revolutionary approach to high-risk deliveries in cases of severe allergies."
The crowd murmured appreciatively as I was strapped to the bed, my wrists and ankles secured with padded restraints that looked clinical but felt like prison shackles.
"Please remain still, Mrs. Castillo," Clare instructed as assistants positioned cameras to capture every angle of my exposed body. "Your contribution to medical science will be remembered for generations."
Tears burned behind my eyes as I felt the weight of hundreds of gazes upon me. The camera lenses zoomed in, capturing my trembling form for posterity.
"Now," Clare announced, "we begin the induction process."
Luke appeared at my side, holding a cup containing a viscous liquid that smelled of chemicals and decay.
"Drink," he ordered, his voice low enough that only I could hear. "All of it."
When I hesitated, he gripped my jaw, forcing my mouth open while another guard held my nose. The liquid poured down my throat—bitter, burning, wrong.
Almost immediately, my body began to convulse. Not natural contractions—something violent and unnatural ripped through my abdomen, tearing at tissues and organs alike.
"Smile for the cameras," Luke whispered as agony consumed me.
In the blur of pain and flashing lights, I felt something shift inside me—not just the baby, but my resolve. As another wave of contractions hit, I used the momentary distraction to reach into my sleeve where I'd hidden the syringe of fetal-stopping medication.
My fingers closed around the plastic barrel just as Clare leaned in for a close-up examination, her perfectly manicured hands pressing against my swollen belly.
"Remarkable," she murmured to the cameras. "You can see the progression already."
I gripped the syringe tighter, waiting for the right moment. One more flash of cameras, one more wave of pain, and then—
My hand moved with surprising strength, plunging the needle into my thigh before anyone could notice.
