I was lying in a hospital bed at St. Jude’s Medical Center, the sheets starched and smelling of bleach and antiseptic. The steady, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor was the only sound in the room, a digital metronome counting down the seconds of my anxiety.
My name is Emily Carter. I was seven months pregnant, and my blood pressure had spiked so high that my doctor had admitted me for observation. It was supposed to be a routine precaution. Just a few hours of rest, some fluids, and I would be back home.
But I wasn’t alone in my worry. My hand rested protectively on the mound of my belly, feeling the small, reassuring kicks of my daughter. My husband, Daniel Carter, wasn’t there. He had texted me an hour ago: “Stuck in meetings. Will try to get there later.”
Work. That was always the excuse. But deep down, in the quiet corners of my mind where intuition lives, I knew work wasn’t the reason. I knew about the late-night texts. I knew about the scent of perfume that wasn’t mine lingering on his shirts.
I closed my eyes, trying to force myself to relax for the baby’s sake.
The door to my room flew open with a violence that made me jump. The handle slammed against the wall, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
A woman stood there. She was dressed in a camel-colored designer coat that cost more than my car, her heels clicking aggressively on the linoleum floor. Her hair was perfectly styled, her makeup flawless, but her eyes were burning with a rage that was anything but beautiful.
I recognized her immediately. Lena Moore.
I had seen her photos on Daniel’s phone when he thought I wasn’t looking. I had seen her name pop up on his notifications at 2:00 AM. She was the reason my marriage had been quietly bleeding out for the last three months.
She slammed the door shut behind her, sealing us in.
“So,” she sneered, her voice dripping with venom. “This is where you’re hiding.”
I struggled to sit up, the IV line pulling at my hand. My heart rate monitor sped up—beep-beep-beep—betraying my fear.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I stammered, my voice trembling. “This is a hospital. I’m pregnant.”
Lena laughed. It was a cold, jagged sound. She walked toward the bed, her eyes fixated on my stomach.
“Exactly,” she hissed. “You think carrying his bastard makes you untouchable? You think you can trap him with a baby?”
“It’s his child,” I said, instinctively covering my belly with both hands. “Daniel’s child.”
“That baby should have been mine!” Lena screamed. The mask of composure slipped, revealing a desperate, unhinged fury. “He promised me! He said he was leaving you! And then you get pregnant and ruin everything!”
She was close now. Too close. I could smell her perfume—a heavy, floral scent that made me nauseous. I reached for the call button on the side of the bed.
Before my fingers could graze the red plastic, Lena lunged.
She grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked my head forward. Pain exploded across my scalp, white-hot and blinding. I screamed, my body twisting awkwardly. My back slammed against the metal bed rail, the impact jarring my spine.
My stomach twisted in fear—not for me, but for the life inside me.
“Stop!” I cried, tears springing to my eyes. “You’re hurting the baby! Please!”
She shoved me down hard against the mattress. Her face was inches from mine, twisted into a mask of pure hatred.
