"Congratulation, Mrs. Holmes! Your baby is perfectly healthy."
The doctor smiled warmly, then added with a hint of caution, "But you must be very careful. If you lose this eighth child... you may never be able to conceive again."
My heart leapt. Clutching the prenatal report, I hurried to the office, my hands trembling with excitement.
Today was our eighth wedding anniversary.
Our baby—also eight months along—was the best gift I could ever give my husband, Weston.
In one hand, I held the medical report; in the other was a billion-dollar contract I had just secured for his company.
I wanted to surprise him.
But just as my fingers brushed the door handle, a familiar, honeyed voice stopped me cold.
"Weston, for your sake, my sister has already lost seven babies. Are you really willing to let her lose the eighth one too?"
My long-lost sister, Patricia, was sitting on my husband's lap, her arms looped around his neck.
"Mm," he murmured, his tone low and tender. "The doctor said that as long as we take the umbilical cord blood from her eighth child, your body will recover completely. After that, I'll give her another baby."
"Besides," he added, brushing her hair aside, "you're already pregnant. The rightful heir of the Holmes family can only be our child."
A deafening buzz filled my ears. My mind went blank.
For Patricia's sake... my husband had planned to kill our baby?
I froze where I stood, biting my lip so hard I tasted blood.
This couldn't be true...
Just this morning, Weston had rested his hand on my belly, whispering softly to our child, telling me how much he looked forward to becoming a father.
No. He wouldn't... he couldn't...
But memories of my past miscarriages flooded back like a nightmare I could never escape.
The first child was just three months old.
We were at the hospital for a checkup when one of his enemies ambushed him. I shielded him from the attack and lost the baby.
The second time, he hired bodyguards to protect me around the clock. But a runaway truck rammed into my car on my way home.
I spent three days in the ICU, and when I woke up, the baby was gone.
The third time was when his company was about to go public. I told him I was pregnant, and he held me so tightly I could hardly breathe. He swore he'd protect me no matter what.
But then, he was dragged into a gang war.
I led my own people into the fight and saved him—at the cost of our child and nearly my life.
Every time I miscarried, Weston knelt before me in tears, blaming himself.
And every time, I comforted him, telling him it wasn't his fault—that it was just fate.
But now I knew.
He already told me the truth. I had just been too blind to see it.
Hot tears streamed down my cheeks, my chest tightening until I could barely breathe. I clenched my fists and took shaky breaths, trying not to fall apart.
Inside the office, Patricia rested her head on his chest, tracing circles on his shirt with her finger.
"Weston," she murmured, feigning hesitation, "the doctor said if my sister loses another baby, she might never be a mother again. That's too cruel for her. Maybe we should just forget it. Don't save me."
Her teary eyes made his heart ache.
"No, Patricia," he said firmly, "you're the most important person in my life."
"Denise stole everything that should have been yours. If she loses the ability to have children, that's only fair. Compared to what you've suffered, it's nothing."
"Besides, she already has everything—wealth, status, my name. What more could she possibly want?"
His cold words pierced through me like knives.
Eight years of love, of fighting side by side, of sharing every joy and sorrow—and in his eyes, I was nothing but a greedy, ungrateful woman.
He knew how much I longed to be a mother. He knew I'd trade everything just to protect this child.
And still, he was the one who destroyed my dream.
Weston, how cruel can you be?
My heart shattered completely.
"Weston, I love you," Patricia whispered tearfully. "As long as you're by my side, nothing else matters."
Her lips brushed his throat, her hands sliding over his body.
"Patricia, you're pregnant... we shouldn't..." he murmured hoarsely, his breath growing ragged.
"The doctor said after three months, it's fine."
On hearing that, all his restraint vanished. He tore off her clothes and kissed her fiercely, their muffled moans filling the office.
I gripped the doorknob so tightly that my knuckles turned white, fighting the urge to burst in and confront him.
If he truly loved my sister, why did he marry me in the first place?
And he was my child's biological father, how could he bear to kill his own flesh and blood with his own hands?
But reason held me back.
I couldn't let them hurt my baby. Not again.
With trembling hands, I recorded their betrayal through the small crack in the door, then quietly turned away.
Only when I reached the car did my composure crumble.
At eighteen, the Holmes family found me and claimed I was their long-lost daughter. At first, I didn't want to return—but then, I saw Weston, their foster son, and fell hopelessly in love.
He blamed my return for driving Patricia, their "fake" daughter, out of the house.
But I never cared about her.
My adoptive father was far more powerful than the Holmes, and they only wanted me back to curry favor with him. Sending Patricia away was just a show of loyalty.
I didn't care. I only wanted Weston.
I gave him everything—my love, my loyalty, my family's influence—until he became the richest man in the city.
The billion-dollar contract in my hands would have secured his empire forever.
Now, it just felt like the cruelest joke.
After crying until my chest hurt, I wiped my tears and ripped the contract in half.
My hand moved to my belly. I could feel the faint rhythm of life within.
"Baby," I whispered softly, "since your father doesn't love you, Mommy will find you a new one."
I pulled out my phone and dialed a familiar number overseas.
"Dad," I said, voice trembling but resolute, "I agree to the arranged marriage. Please help me divorce Weston."
A sigh came from the other end.
"Denise, I've warned you. The Holmes family and Weston are both rotten to the core. Your birth parents abandoned you on purpose—how dare they later claim they 'lost' you by accident?"
Hearing the concern in his voice, I choked back a sob.
"I know, Dad. I was wrong. But I'll make them pay for what they did to me."
My adoptive father immediately sent his assistant, Mr. Lenon, to handle things.
"Miss," Assistant Lenon said, "we've already begun collecting evidence of Weston's crimes. The divorce agreement is being drafted as we speak."
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down.
Then I pulled out my makeup kit, concealing my swollen eyes.
Before I left him forever, I couldn't afford to let Weston see even a crack in my mask.
