Bile rose in my throat. I shifted away, dodging Ian's hand before it could graze my skin.
How dare he speak my daughter's name?
A soft, pitiful sob broke the tension. Harper stood in the doorway, barefoot, her eyes rimmed with calculated redness. She didn't speak—just turned and fled down the hallway.
Ian didn't hesitate. He chased after her without a backward glance.
I cradled my swollen belly, letting a single tear trace my cheek. This baby is mine, I vowed silently. Yours alone. Nothing to do with Ian.
Once the pregnancy was confirmed, Ian played the doting husband to perfection. A cruel mimicry of the days when we were truly in love.
He showered me with limited-edition porcelain ornaments, oblivious to the irony—the porcelain doll I tended to day and night was the only vessel left for my daughter's soul.
My morning sickness was severe. Ian turned down projects worth over a hundred million to stay home and cook for me. Slowly, my flat stomach began to round with life.
He would stare at my belly, grinning like a fool. "Finally. I'm going to be a father."
If he hadn't caused my darling's death, if Harper's perfume didn't cling to his shirts, I might have been stupid enough to believe he still possessed a shred of sincerity.
As my due date neared, Ian brought a heavily pregnant Harper into our home. He settled her in the room right next to mine.
He frowned, feigning conflict. "Grace, the child she carries is also mine. I can't abandon my own flesh and blood."
He pushed a document toward me. "Don't worry. The lawyers drafted this—only your child will be my heir."
I watched him sign, a hollow performance of loyalty. I didn't fight it.
"It's okay. I understand," I said flatly. "Let her stay. As long as she doesn't disturb me."
But peace was never part of Harper's plan.
That night, moments after finishing the soup I'd prepared, she doubled over in agony. Blood soaked through her white dress, stark against the fabric.
"If Sister Grace hates me for stealing Ian's love, let her kill me," Harper choked out, tears streaming. "I have no complaints... but the baby is innocent..."
I stood frozen by the performance. Before I could speak, Ian shoved me aside with brutal force.
"If anything happens to Harper's baby," he snarled, scooping her into his arms, "that bastard in your belly dies with it!"
My lower back collided with the table's sharp corner.
Agony exploded in my abdomen. Warmth gushed between my legs as amniotic fluid pattered onto the floor.
"Ian!" I screamed, but he didn't turn.
Another contraction seized me. My hands trembled as I dialed emergency services.
"Help me..." I gasped. "I'm in labor."
At the hospital, chaos reigned. Every available obstetrician was diverted to Harper's ward.
I lay alone on the icy operating table. It felt like a bulldozer grinding my bones to dust with every contraction.
Only after Harper's son was delivered did the staff remember the dying woman next door. My labor was difficult; the fetus was in distress. Countless needles pierced my skin to keep me alive.
Just before darkness took me, I glimpsed through the glass—Ian holding Harper's child, tears of joy streaming down his face.
The baby's one-month celebration was a joint affair.
Ian invited only his inner circle—men who clapped him on the back for securing both a son and a daughter, praising the "harmony" between his wife and his mistress.
Harper cradled her son, unable to mask her triumph as she approached me.
"Grace," she whispered, dripping venom. "What does that little bastard of yours have to compete with my son? Kneel and beg, and I might consider being a merciful stepmother."
I ignored her. Smiling, I adjusted my daughter's blanket and walked to Ian's side.
The room quieted for toasts. Amid applause and blessings, I pressed the remote in my hand.
The giant screen flared to life.
Harper's face drained of color.
