The next day I lay in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
A soft knock at the ward door broke the silence. "Sister, I heard you had a miscarriage. I came to see you."
At the doorway stood Patricia, one hand resting lightly on her slightly rounded belly as she studied me with exaggerated concern. Weston hovered beside her, fidgeting nervously.
"Denise, Patricia is pregnant. Please don't be like you were yesterday..." he said, worry heavy in his voice.
My gaze locked on her belly. Patricia seemed startled by my stare and took an involuntary step back.
"Don't scare her," Weston scolded, frowning as he tried to smooth things over.
"Is the baby in her belly yours?" I asked, cold and steady.
For a moment both their faces were drained of color.
"No...of course not…" Weston stammered, his gaze darting away.
Patricia's eyes reddened and she stepped forward, clutching at the explanation like a rescue line. "Sister, please don't misunderstand Brother-in-law. I only thought—after what happened, the doctor said you might never be able to have children again...I just wanted to give you my child to raise when the baby is born, so you and Brother-in-law won't be so sad."
Weston cleared his throat, trying to reassure me. "Denise, Patricia meant well... Perhaps—"
"Let's separate." I cut him off before he could finish. "I'm tired. I won't play along anymore."
"If you loved each other so much, fine. Then have each other."
A flash of delight lit Patricia's face for a beat, then it was gone.
Weston's pupils narrowed. "W-what did you say?" He took a step toward me but stopped dead at the sound of Patricia's sudden sob.
"Sister, I'm sorry! I shouldn't have come back. It's my fault—I'll go now!" she wailed, and fled the room.
Weston hesitated, then looked at me with a soft, pleading expression. "Denise, I know you're grieving, but don't say things you don't mean. If you don't want to raise Patricia's child, fine—don't say that in anger. Wait until you recover, and we can have another baby later."
After saying that, he left in a hurry, unaware of the cold smile curling at my mouth.
I wasn't angry, but eerily calm. Countless thoughts swirled in my mind as I pulled out my phone and called Assistant Lenon.
"Send that billion-dollar contract to the Lane Group as my dowry," I said. "Let it be my wedding gift."
The Lane Group had always been Weston's greatest rival. Without my adoptive father's covert support over the years, Weston's company would've been devoured long ago. Now, I would cut off his last escape.
Over the next few days, Weston returned often, practically glued to my side. However, I ignored him like air.
On the day I was discharged, he personally drove me home. The villa looked newly redecorated;
I frowned as we stepped inside. Suddenly Patricia appeared from the bedroom—wearing my pajamas.
"Denise, Patricia is pregnant. I was worried about her living alone, so I brought her here. You won't be angry, right?" Weston asked cautiously.
Patricia cowered behind him like a frightened rabbit. "Sister, please don't kick me out."
Watching them exchange those small, intimate glances made my skin crawl.
Expressionless, I nodded then went to my room and started packing.
When I opened the wardrobe, I found a neat stack of tiny baby clothes tucked in the corner. Each shirt had been made with my own hands.
My throat tightened. I had prayed in temples until my voice was hoarse for this child's safe delivery—I had even promised to offer ten years of my life if only the baby could be born safely.
The abbot had seen my sincerity and told me to sew one hundred garments and place them before the shrine for consecration. I had done it all.
"Baby, I'm sorry," I whispered into the fabric, burying my face and sobbing softly. "Mommy... couldn't protect you."
Without warning, Patricia stood in my doorway, smiling sweetly as she picked up one of the tiny shirts. "Sister, these little clothes are beautiful—can I have this one?"
"Put it down." My voice was icier than I intended.
Her smile faltered, and tears immediately welled up in her eyes. "Sorry, sis, I was just curious."
She grabbed my arm suddenly and gripped it hard. "Do you hate me so much? Don't make me leave... please don't hurt my baby."
"Let go!" I flung her hand off and in the struggle, she stumbled and fell to the floor.
"If you don't like me, I'll go. Just—please don't hurt my child!" Patricia sobbed. Weston burst into the room.
"What happened?" he demanded.
"Brother-in-law," Patricia cried, "I only wanted to look at these clothes, but my sister said my baby was the reason for her miscarriage! She pushed me down!"
Weston's face darkened inch by inch. I said nothing; I only watched him, composed and cold.
"Denise," he said at last, tone hard, "I know you're hurting over your loss, but you cannot take it out on a pregnant woman. If this happens again—even though you are my wife—I won't indulge you."
He scooped Patricia up and left. As the door closed, she shot me a triumphant little smile.
She thought she had won. She didn't know how wrong she was.
I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
When the time came, I would make them pay a price they wouldn't forget.
