On our wedding anniversary, seven months pregnant, I rushed to the meeting place my husband, Daniel Reed, had texted me—bringing along our three-year-old daughter, Emma Reed—only to be kidnapped.

The kidnappers forced me to call Daniel 99 times, but every call went unanswered. Because of that delay, Emma was thrown into a pit of snakes and fatally bitten, while I nearly suffered a miscarriage from the trauma.

Fighting for our lives, I finally got her to the hospital, only to have the road blocked by Daniel’s secretary, Sophie Lane, who was hosting her own birthday banquet. By the time I made it to the emergency room, Emma’s little face was already pale and lifeless.

The doctors shook their heads.

“Ma’am, we’re sorry. She died from the venom. If you had arrived ten minutes earlier, she could have been saved.”

Before I could even grieve, Daniel’s impatient voice came over the phone:

“Claire Whitmore, can’t you be more understanding? Sophie is the daughter of a billionaire—without her, I could never close this deal.”

And before I could process when my father had supposedly gained another daughter, my mother-in-law called, her voice dripping with venom:

“Where have you and that useless brat gone? My son should’ve married Sophie Lane long ago!”

A video popped up from Sophie: Daniel peeling shrimp for her at the couple’s restaurant I had always dreamed of visiting.

Then came a voice message: “So, how does it feel to be bitten by a snake? Do you like the anniversary gift I sent you?”

Attached was her prenatal report—under “Father’s Name” was Daniel Reed.

I called the billionaire:

“Dad, I’ve changed my mind. Book me a hospital to protect the baby. I’m filing for divorce, raising my child without its father, and once this pregnancy is stable, I’ll return home—just in time to deliver a little surprise at their signing ceremony next week.”

——

A string of blows had left my pregnancy unstable, so my billionaire father booked me the top-tier VIP delivery suite to ensure the safety of my baby.

When I arrived at the maternity ward, I saw from a distance that the light in the VIP suite was on. That suite—equipped with the most advanced monitoring equipment and a temperature-controlled sterile system—was reserved exclusively for special patients at this private hospital. My father had personally instructed the director to make sure I stayed in the safest environment possible.

But just as I reached the door, a woman in a Chanel suit blocked my way. She was wearing ten-centimeter heels despite her slightly rounded belly—and she was none other than my fiancé Daniel Reed’s secretary, Sophie Lane.

“I’m taking this room. You can switch to a standard one,” Sophie drawled, leaning against the doorframe. Her manicured red nails lazily traced over the room plaque. “A pregnant nobody like you is just wasting space in a place like this.”

Supporting my lower back, I spoke through the waves of pain gripping my abdomen. “This room was booked in advance by my family. The reservation slip is at the nurses’ station.”

“So what if it’s booked?” she suddenly raised her voice, drawing stares from other expectant mothers in the hallway. “The Reed Corporation is about to close a deal with the Whitmore family. From now on, in Bayshore City, Daniel’s name is as good as a pass to anything. Forget just one room—if I want the whole maternity ward switched, it’ll be done.”

With that, she deliberately bumped into me. I stumbled, catching myself against the wall as a sharp, stabbing pain shot through my stomach.

“What are you doing?!” I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms.

“What am I doing? Helping you realize your place,” Sophie sneered. “Daniel says a penny-pinching woman who can’t even afford a nurse for her prenatal checkups doesn’t deserve VIP treatment. Unlike me—carrying the Reed family’s first grandson—living here is only natural.”

I steadied myself and dialed Daniel’s number. His impatient voice came through the receiver: “I’m in the middle of an important meeting. What is it?”

“Sophie took my VIP suite. Can you—”

“It’s not a big deal,” he cut me off. “You can give birth in a standard room. Stop being so dramatic. Sophie’s from the Whitmore family, she’s of high status. Why can’t you let her have it?”

“But my dad arranged this room for me—”

“Your dad? That guy who runs a corner shop? What could he possibly pull off?” Daniel’s voice dripped with contempt. “Stop embarrassing me. Change rooms.”

The call ended, and Sophie smirked.

“Heard that? Daniel says this room is mine.”

She stepped aside just as Daniel—who’d claimed to be in an “important meeting”—hurried over carrying bags of supplements for Sophie.

“Daniel, you really believe her?” I looked at him, feeling my heart sink deeper and deeper.

He frowned, avoiding my gaze. “Emma, don’t make a scene. Sophie’s delicate and needs a good environment to protect the baby. You… just bear with it.”

“Bear with it?” I laughed, tears sliding down my cheeks. “Since I got pregnant, have you accompanied me to a single prenatal checkup? And now even the suite I booked is being taken by your secretary, and you tell me to bear with it?”

Sophie suddenly clutched her stomach with a dramatic gasp and leaned into Daniel. “Daniel, my belly hurts… maybe she upset me just now…”

“See what you’ve done?” Daniel’s glare cut to me. “I told you not to provoke her. If something happens to the baby, can you take responsibility?” He guided Sophie into the suite, tossing over his shoulder, “Go to a standard room and stop being an eyesore.”

Down the hall, nurses whispered to each other.

“Is that Daniel’s wife? Can’t even keep a suite from the secretary?”

“She’s got no background. Men like Daniel will always choose what helps their career.”

“Look at Sophie’s bag—it’s a limited edition. The other one’s maternity dress looks like it’s from a street stall.”

“I heard that VIP suite is reserved for the Whitmore family. Sophie’s last name is Lane—maybe she’s one of them?”

I went straight home and began packing the things I planned to take with me, throwing everything else away.

The faded couple’s hoodie in the closet went into the trash. I’d bought it for Daniel Reed with my very first paycheck back when he was just starting his business. At the time, he had held me close and promised, “Once the company makes it big, I’ll fill your closet with designer clothes.”

I picked up the glass jar from my nightstand, filled with movie stubs and park tickets from the past three years. Taking a deep breath, I tipped it over, letting the paper flutter into the garbage can.

Lastly, I took the faded bunny keychain he’d given me when we first started dating—a cheap trinket from a street stall, three for ten yuan. Yet he’d said with complete seriousness, “From now on, you’ll keep all my keys.” I gave a self-deprecating smile and tossed it in.

“What are you doing?”

Daniel’s voice came from the doorway, laced with a perfume scent that wasn’t mine.

He saw how much emptier the apartment looked and immediately frowned. “Why are you throwing away perfectly good things?”

I didn’t look back, continuing to remove his suit jackets from the hangers. “These are useless now.”

“How are they useless?” He strode over and grabbed my wrist with a firm grip. “Are you sulking again? I told you I’ve been busy with the company—don’t—”

I yanked my hand free.

He froze, then let out a derisive laugh. “What’s got into you now? Just because of that delivery suite today? Didn’t I explain? Sophie might be connected to the Whitmore family!”

He pulled up a photo on his phone—a shot of Sophie Lane with a middle-aged man. “See? This is Henry Collins, an executive at Whitmore Group Subsidiary. Sophie’s very close to him.”

Every “Sophie” rolled off his tongue with an intimacy he didn’t even seem to notice.

I looked at Sophie’s smiling face in the photo and almost laughed. Henry Collins had toasted my father at his birthday banquet five years ago.

Daniel rubbed his hands together, his tone eager. “As long as we keep Sophie happy and she puts in a good word for us with the Whitmores, the company could secure their investment. I might even take over the Whitmore Group one day. I know I can’t give you the title of Mrs. Reed then, but I promise I’ll make time for you.”

I looked up at him, my throat tight. “Daniel, do you have any idea who’s helped your company get to where it is today?”

He paused, then softened his voice, taking my hand. “Claire, just bear with it a little longer. Once I’m in with the Whitmores, I’ll buy you whatever you want—better than anything that corner-shop dad of yours could give you.”

My fingers went cold.

A corner-shop dad? That was the story I’d made up so he wouldn’t feel pressured. In reality, my father was at the Whitmore Group headquarters right now, reviewing Daniel’s project proposal—the one whose every data point I had stayed up late to verify.

“Are you hungry?” He went into the kitchen and returned with a delicate cake box. “I passed by the dessert shop—Sophie says their mango mille crêpe is the best. You should try it.”

The sight of the bright yellow mango slices instantly made my stomach churn with a familiar nausea. I was severely allergic to mango—once in college I’d nearly gone into anaphylactic shock after eating some. I had told him this more than ten times.

“I’m not eating that. It’s too rich,” I said, stepping back.

“Come on, you haven’t had much appetite lately.” He scooped up a bite and held it to my lips, his tone the coaxing sort you’d use with a child. “Sophie says sweets make people happy.”

The syrupy scent of mango hit my nose, and I jerked my head away. The cake smeared against my cheek, making him pause.

Before he could speak, his phone rang. Sophie’s saccharine voice floated out: “Daniel, thank you for the necklace you gave me. I love it.”

The image attached was of the necklace I’d admired in a store just last week—one he had dragged me away from, saying, “It’s impractical. We’ll buy a better one when we have money.”

Daniel hung up, coughing awkwardly. “It was for a client. Don’t overthink it.”

Seeing my mood sour, he added in a guilty tone, “The company’s having some cash flow issues. I mentioned it to Sophie, and she said she’d talk to her family about investing.”

I lifted my head sharply. Just yesterday, I had anonymously transferred five million into Daniel’s company account—my years of saved dowry—using an overseas account so he wouldn’t feel pressured.

I gave a cold, mocking smile, then pulled out the divorce agreement I’d prepared and slipped it among the hospital bills. “The hospital needs payment. Sign here.”

Eager to go see Sophie, Daniel didn’t even look before signing his name.

After Daniel Reed left, I took the signed divorce papers to the law firm to file for dissolution of the marriage.

The only things I hadn’t packed yet were my daughter’s belongings. As I sorted through them, memories of my little girl came flooding back. Holding her favorite stuffed bunny, I broke down in tears.

Suddenly, voices drifted in from outside—Daniel had returned, and with him was Sophie Lane.

“Daniel, don’t you think my complexion looks much better?” she cooed, one hand resting on her belly, her voice thick with syrup. “The doctor says it’s all thanks to your careful care. Otherwise, the baby and I would have suffered. Not like some people… can’t even keep a proper delivery suite because their body’s too weak.”

When I stepped out, Daniel said casually, “Sophie’s pregnant and picky about food. She’ll be staying here to rest for a while—you’ll be in charge of cooking all her meals.”

Before I could protest, Daniel turned away to answer a call.

Sophie’s gaze swept over my faded maternity dress, her lips curling into a sneer. “Claire, I’m only saying this for your own good—when a woman’s pregnant, she should treat herself better. And what’s that in your hand? Looks ancient. Don’t let it press against your baby.”

Instinctively, I tightened my grip on the toy. It was Emma’s favorite bunny, worn down to threadbare fur but cherished as her nightly companion. After she was gone, it became my only tangible memory of her, and I fully intended to take it with me when I left.

“That’s none of your business,” I bit out, not wanting to waste breath on her, and turned toward my daughter’s room.

“Hey, don’t walk away.” Sophie suddenly stepped forward and deliberately bumped my arm. The bunny slipped from my grasp, tumbling across the floor until it landed at her feet.

Before I could bend down to retrieve it, her ten-centimeter heel came down hard on one of its ears, the sharp crack of tearing fabric filling the air.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see it,” she said with mock surprise, withdrawing her foot. Looking at the crushed toy, she smiled even more smugly. “This ragged thing should’ve been thrown out ages ago—keeping it is just bad luck. Right, Daniel?”

A rush of blood surged to my head, my vision turning red. I slapped her across the face. “Sophie Lane! What do you think you’re doing?!”

One of the bunny’s ears was now shredded, and a button eye—hand-sewn by Emma herself—rolled onto the floor. My hands trembled as I picked it up, my fingertips brushing over a dark stain on the fabric. The tears came hot and fast.

“Why did you push me?” Sophie suddenly cried out, clutching her stomach and stumbling back, her eyes reddening as she collapsed into Daniel’s arms. “Daniel, I didn’t mean anything by it… why is she so aggressive? What if she hurt the baby?”

Daniel’s face darkened as he turned on me. “Claire Whitmore! Have you lost your mind? Sophie’s in a delicate state—how could you push her? It’s just an old toy. I’ll buy you ten new ones!”

“An old toy?” My voice shook. “That was Emma’s! It’s the only thing my daughter left behind!”

“You have the nerve to bring up Emma?” he snapped. “Look at how you raised her—when we have guests, she doesn’t even come out to greet them.” He kept his arm protectively around Sophie.

From behind him, Sophie peeked out and pulled a mocking face at me, silently mouthing, Serves you right.

Then she buried herself against Daniel’s chest, sobbing. “Daniel, I understand that she’s upset. I can take being pushed, but my belly hurts so much—what if something’s wrong with the baby?”

Daniel shot me one last venomous glare before scooping Sophie up and carrying her out.

I clutched the ruined bunny to my chest, my knuckles white, the ache in my abdomen tangling with the seething hatred in my heart.