Althea POV:
A dull ache throbbed behind my eyes as I slowly surfaced from a drug-induced haze. The cloying sweetness of the generalized sedative lingered on my tongue, making my vision swim. They called it "calming medication." I called it a chemical straitjacket. They had forced it on me, a cocktail of sedatives and a bone-weakening agent, just before Ashli went into labor. To ensure I didn't "do anything rash," Barrett had explained, his voice devoid of emotion. To ensure I didn't harm Ashli or, God forbid, the new heir. The irony was a bitter pill, harder to swallow than any sedative. They feared I would hurt them? After everything they had done to me?
My eyelids fluttered, then opened fully, the fluorescent lights of the hospital room burning into my retinas. The room was mostly empty, save for a nurse tidying up a corner. Then I saw him. Hudson. He sat by the window, bathed in the pale morning light, holding the tiny bundle in his arms. A genuine smile, a pure, unadulterated joy I hadn't seen on his face in years, lit up his features. It was a cruel sight, a stark reminder of what our life could have been. My stomach clenched with a familiar wave of nausea, the lingering effects of the drugs mingling with a fresh surge of revulsion.
He turned, his smile dimming slightly as he met my gaze. He rose, carefully placing the baby in a bassinet beside him. He walked over to my bed, a clipboard in his hand.
"Althea," he said, his voice flat, devoid of the previous tenderness. "You're awake. Good. The nurse needs you to sign this. The birth certificate."
He held out the clipboard, the crisp white paper a stark contrast to the dark memories swirling in my head. My hand trembled as I took it, the pen cold and unfamiliar against my skin. My eyes scanned the document, moving past the date, the hospital name, the parents' names-Hudson Marks and Ashli Bird, etched there in indelible ink-until they landed on the space for the baby's name.
My breath hitched. The world tilted on its axis, the room spinning violently. My mind, previously fogged by the drugs, snapped into sharp, agonizing focus.
Lily.
The name, our Lily's name, stared back at me from the official document. A cruel, calculated theft. My Lily. Our Lily. The name I had whispered into her tiny ear moments after she was born. The name that held all our dreams, all our hopes, a beacon of pure, innocent love. It was the name I had chosen, not just for a child, but for the legacy of our love, for the promise of a family built on trust and devotion. It was a name meant for our son, the one we had lost.
A wave of searing pain, sharper than any physical blow, ripped through me. It wasn't just the name. It was the audacity, the utter disrespect. That name was sacred. It was meant for my son, the first test-tube baby we conceived after the accident, after the doctors told me my body, shattered during Hudson's reckless driving and Ashli's distracting call, could no longer carry a child naturally. The internal injuries, the shattered pelvis, the desperate surgeries to save me from the wreckage – they had stolen my ability to bear children, leaving me barren and broken.
I remembered the agonizing hope when that first embryo implanted, the fragile joy of those early weeks. Then, the crushing despair when I lost him, a tiny life snuffed out before it even had a chance to breathe. And who was on the phone with Hudson that day, distracting him, leading to the accident that damaged my body and stole my first child? Ashli. Always Ashli.
We had planned a memorial for that lost little one, a quiet remembrance, an urn for his ashes, a gravestone etched with the name Lily. But the family patriarch, Barrett, ever the pragmatist, had delayed it, citing "public image concerns" amidst the scandal of Lily's death. Always public image. And now, this. This monstrous appropriation.
Throughout Ashli' s pregnancy, Hudson had raised the idea of naming their child Lily, a twisted gesture he insisted was a way to "honor" our deceased daughter. Each time, I had shut him down, my voice cold, my refusal absolute. That name was not theirs to take. It was a part of my grief, my memory, my unfulfilled promise.
But now, it was real. Signed. Official.
I looked up at Hudson, his face still etched with that sickeningly content smile. The joy he radiated for this new life – a life built on my ruins, stealing my sacred grief – felt like a physical assault. It was disgusting. Utterly, completely disgusting.
I knew Barrett, the old fox. He would never have allowed this. He valued the family name too much, the optics of such a blatant insult to me and my dead daughter. This could only have been Ashli's doing, whispered into Hudson's weak ear, preying on his guilt and his desperate need to appease everyone around him. Her ultimate power play.
This was it. This was the final, irreversible step. The divorce, once a distant promise, felt real, tangible. It was coming. And I craved it with a hunger that eclipsed all other emotions. His family name, the illustrious Marks, felt like a brand of shame, a mark I longed to shed. His new child could carry it. I wanted nothing more than to erase every trace of it from my life.
I gripped the clipboard, my knuckles white, a silent storm raging within me.
