"I'm returning those exact words to you. I hope you won't regret this."
I ended the call and turned to Jack, who was supporting my weight. His face was dark with suppressed rage.
"Jack," I said, my voice steady despite the pain radiating through me. "Pull the project you gave Rhys. Reassign it immediately. He doesn't deserve a scrap of your charity."
Jack nodded, jaw set. "Consider it done. I'm calling President Zhou right now."
He pulled out his phone, scoffing. "That ungrateful bastard. No car, no house, no savings. His father's practically a corpse kept alive by our money. If you hadn't been bankrolling him for years, he'd have been finished long ago. And he still has the audacity to bite the hand that feeds him?"
Jack wasn't exaggerating.
Two years into our relationship, Rhys's father had collapsed in the street—a stroke leaving him comatose. The Abbott family liquidated everything just to scrape together the surgery fees.
But surgery was only the down payment. ICU costs, imported nutritional fluids, endless rehabilitation—a financial black hole. Rhys hadn't even graduated; he was hauling bricks at construction sites just to earn pennies.
I couldn't watch him suffer. To protect his pride, I'd contacted the hospital as an "anonymous donor" and covered every bill since.
Without my money, would he have lived so comfortably? Would he have had the leisure to flirt with our neighbor while I carried his child?
A cold smile touched my lips.
"Jack, tell the hospital to cut the funding too. Jackson Abbott's medical bills are Rhys's problem now."
Moments after giving the order, contractions seized me. I was wheeled into the delivery room, the doors swinging shut on my old life.
An hour later, I emerged.
When I drifted back to consciousness, my family stood guard around the bed. My mother sat close, gripping my hand.
I looked at their concerned faces, then down at the bassinet. My daughter slept there—a tiny, perfect bundle.
For the first time in months, I smiled. Genuinely. The future finally looked bright.
Then the shouting started.
"Lettie! Open the door!" Rhys's voice, muffled but unmistakable. "I'm the father! You can't keep me from my child!"
Jack bristled, fists curling. "That son of a bitch. We already told him to get lost."
He stepped toward the door. "If he doesn't leave, I'm knocking his teeth out."
"Jack, wait." I stopped him. "Let him in. I want to settle the divorce now. I'm done dragging this out."
My mother frowned. "Lettie, you just gave birth. The stress—can't this wait?"
Madeline nodded. "She's right. If you get worked up now, you could end up with long-term issues."
I shook my head.
My second brother stepped forward. "Let her do it. Lettie knows her limits. If she gets uncomfortable, we stop." He glanced around. "Besides—do you really think we'd let Rhys bully her with all of us here? The sooner she cuts him loose, the better."
His logic won them over. Jack threw open the door.
Rhys didn't even make it through first. His mother, Josephine, barreled past him, voice screeching.
"Where is he? Where's my big, fat grandson?"
My mother stepped in front of the crib, blocking her path. Her expression was ice.
"There is no grandson. It's a granddaughter."
"Granddaughter?"
Josephine's face collapsed. She snatched her hands back as if the crib were contagious, excitement replaced by indignation.
"A girl doesn't count! Listen to me, Scarlett—this one's a write-off. Once your confinement month is up, you need to get pregnant again immediately! The Abbott family has had a single son for three generations. We will not let the line die because of your incompetence!"
In the past, whenever his mother went on these tirades, Rhys would rush to shield me, claiming he preferred daughters anyway.
But today?
Rhys stood behind her, limp and spineless. He tugged at her sleeve in a half-hearted attempt to silence her, not daring to meet my eyes.
