“And I’m not trying to speak ill of her, but you really need to keep your daughter in check,” Derrick sneered over the phone. “She’s been fooling around with different men at the Postnatal Recovery Suite. What’s the matter—being raised by a single mom made her desperate for male attention? It’s disgusting. Vivien is far more pure!”
Then he hung up—just like that—before I could even respond.
My hands shook so badly I almost dropped the phone.
I had divorced shortly after Marla was born. Yes, we were a single-parent family. But so what?
I raised her myself with love and care. She’d always been gentle, quiet, and sensible—not at all like what he claimed. I knew my daughter. I knew her.
I took a steadying breath and immediately called the Postnatal Recovery Suite to reinstate her stay. Whatever happened, her health mattered most right now.
But the moment the line connected, the receptionist responded with a mocking tone.
“So you’re Marla’s mother? Figures. Like mother, like daughter.”
“What kind of shameless woman books the most luxurious room in the name of the Camden Group for a sponsored student?”
“You people from the mountains always dream of clinging to wealth. But at least teach your daughter to behave.”
“She was in the best suite, bringing in a different man every night. We’re a medical facility, not a brothel!”
“Thank goodness Mr. Harlan did the right thing—he kicked her out and gave that room to the real daughter of the Camden Group.”
“If you really care about your daughter, you’d come collect her yourself instead of making demands. You have no money, yet you act like you own the place.”
I was trembling.
My daughter—my well-mannered, innocent child—was being slandered and insulted like filth. By strangers!
And Vivien—the sponsored student I raised like my own—she was claiming to be the daughter of the Camden Group?
I slammed the phone down and turned to my assistant. “Find out exactly what happened. I want every detail. Now.”
Within half an hour, a video landed in my inbox. What I saw made my blood run cold.
Vivien, heavily pregnant, had complained of feeling unwell. To cheer her up, Derrick threw her a party.
But the party wasn’t a celebration.
It was a bet.
The guests were gambling—gambling on how to make my daughter give birth early.
They surrounded Marla, hurling insults, laughing at her tears as she tried to block out the noise.
In the video, Vivien sat calmly with a glass of juice, sneering, “All talk, no action. If you can’t even handle this, don’t bother showing up to my Camden Group’s events again.”
That was the cue.
One by one, the men turned their eyes on Marla—my daughter.
Grinning, they approached her like predators.
“Don’t blame us,” one said, pressing his foot against her swollen stomach. “You messed with the wrong rich girl. We’re just climbing the ladder.”
They escalated. Pushing. Kicking. Mocking her. Until someone reached for her waistband.
She tried to fight back—but it was a dozen against one.
All the while, Derrick sat on the couch, holding Vivien in his arms as they both laughed.
Laughed.
Tears blurred my vision as I watched my daughter—my brave, quiet child—writhing in pain, giving birth prematurely at the hospital.
Then came another clip.
Vivien slapping Marla’s face—once, twice—then leaning down with a venomous smile.
“Marla, you think being born rich makes you special? You gave birth to a useless girl. I’m carrying a boy. The boy.”
“Derrick never loved you. We’re only after your mother’s company.”
“Why should you have all the good things while I was just a sponsored student? From now on, your good life belongs to me!”
I stared at the screen, frozen, as my daughter lay weak and silent in a hospital bed, biting her lips to keep from crying.
And suddenly, I understood why she hesitated every time we had a video call. Why she always smiled through the screen, even when her eyes looked like they were begging for help.
