The day I gave birth to my daughter, my husband threw a paternity test in my face—one that said he wasn't the father.

His voice dripped with wounded outrage.

"Samantha Pruitt, I gave you everything. How could you humiliate me like this?"

"We're done. I want the $88,000 bride price back by the end of the month. Take your bastard and get out. I never want to see either of you again."

I held my sleeping newborn against my chest.

No tears. No begging.

Just a calm nod.

After all, I'd heard everything last night—standing outside the delivery room, invisible, while his precious adopted sister clung to his arm.

"Cyril Sanchez," Ruth Sanchez had whined, her voice dripping with sweetness, "my dying wish is to have you all to myself for one year. Just like when we were kids. Can't you send her away? Just for a little while?"

And my husband—my husband—had gazed at her like she hung the moon.

"Silly girl, don't talk like that. You'll be fine after the appendectomy. And yes—this whole year, I'll be yours alone."

I'd been lying on the operating table when I heard it. Tears slid silently into my hair.

He didn't know.

The man who'd waited ten years for me was coming tomorrow.

Not just for a year. This time, I was never coming back.

1.

Ruth jabbed a manicured finger toward my daughter, gasping with theatrical horror.

"Oh my God, Cyril—no wonder she looked wrong to me. She's a bastard."

Her voice rang through the room, shrill and performative. One razor-sharp acrylic nail pressed into my baby's delicate cheek, leaving a tiny red mark.

"God, she's hideous. All wrinkled like a little old man." Ruth's lip curled. "They say daughters take after their fathers. Guess you're not picky, sis—you'll spread your legs for anyone."

Cyril's expression was ice. Distant. Like I was a stranger who'd wandered into his life by accident.

"Samantha. Since this child isn't a Sanchez, she doesn't deserve this room." His gaze swept over me without warmth. "Take your bastard and get out. Now."

I looked at Ruth—draped head to toe in Chanel couture, a single diamond on her stiletto worth more than a hundred nights in this VIP suite.

Then I looked at myself.

I'd been wheeled out of surgery alone. No nurse. No aide. Just me, still bleeding, holding my newborn with shaking arms.

A bitter laugh caught in my throat.

So that was it. My daughter and I together couldn't outweigh one pouty request from his dear little sister.

I clutched my baby and tried to move. My legs screamed in protest.

The moment I shifted, something warm and wet gushed between my thighs. The white sheets bloomed crimson beneath me.

Ruth shrieked.

"EW! Oh my God, that's disgusting! Look at all that—that blood! It smells horrible!" She pressed a hand to her chest, staggering dramatically. "I'm going to have nightmares!"

She flung herself into Cyril's arms—and with one vicious swipe, ripped the blanket off my body.

Cold air hit my skin like a slap.

I lay exposed in nothing but a postpartum diaper. The eight-centimeter incision across my abdomen was still seeping, blood trickling down to join the mess pooling beneath me.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The door was wide open. People walked past, glancing in.

I wanted to disappear. To sink through the floor. I felt like I'd been stripped naked and thrown into the street.

"Cover me." My voice cracked with humiliation. "Please."

Something flickered across Cyril's face—discomfort, maybe. He shifted to block the doorway and pulled the blanket back over me.

"Enough. You look like we tortured you." His jaw tightened. "Someone get a wheelchair. Move her to the general ward."

Ruth's head snapped up.

"Cyril!" Her eyes went wide with disbelief. "This woman cheated on you. In ancient times, adulteresses were drowned in pig cages! She should crawl out of here—let the whole hospital see what a shameless whore looks like. Let them see what happens when you betray a Sanchez."

"But she just had surgery—"

"Are you seriously defending her right now?" Ruth's voice pitched higher, cracking with accusation. "Her and her bastard?"

Tears welled in her eyes, perfectly on cue.

Cyril exhaled slowly.

And when he looked at her, his gaze softened into something unbearably tender.

"Fine, fine, fine. You're the Sanchez family's precious little princess, the only treasure in your brother's heart. Whatever you say goes."

Ruth let out a satisfied hum.

She sauntered ahead of me, clapping her hands as she broadcast my so-called "affair" to anyone within earshot.

"Everyone, come look! This shameless woman cheated on my brother and still expected him to raise another man's child! A cheap, worthless tramp—watch your husbands around her, or she'll sink her claws into them too!"

The stares came from every direction, each one a blade.

Someone's temper snapped. A thermos container flew through the air and cracked against my chest, splattering hot congee across my body.

Scalding. A blister rose instantly on my exposed skin.

Cyril didn't spare me a single glance.

He stayed at Ruth's side, quietly kicking small stones out of her path, devoting himself entirely to clearing every obstacle from her way.

Watching this, my chest felt crushed beneath something waterlogged and heavy—suffocating, as if I might never draw another full breath.

By the time I gritted my teeth and made it to the standard room, my legs had turned to jelly.

I collapsed onto the hospital bed, too weak to do anything but curl around my daughter.

My little one, you don't have a father anymore.

But that's okay. After tonight, we'll start over. Just the two of us.

That night, Nora burst into wails, her tiny body burning up.

I dragged myself upright and carried her to the door—

Only to be blocked by the guards.

"Miss Pruitt, apologies. Without orders from Mr. Sanchez or Miss Sanchez, you're not permitted to leave this room."

I clutched my daughter tighter against my chest, my voice rising to a desperate shout. "Move! My daughter has a high fever—she needs medical attention now!"

The guard's expression didn't flicker.

"Apologies. Until you've repaid the eight hundred eighty thousand dollars in bride price, you're not taking a single step outside. If you run, Mr. Sanchez will hold us accountable for that debt. Please don't make this difficult."

Ice spread through my veins. Something in my mind detonated.

Eight hundred eighty thousand in bride price.

Everyone said I'd struck gold marrying Cyril Sanchez—a sparrow landing on a phoenix branch, destined for a lifetime of luxury as a wealthy man's wife.

But no one knew the truth.

Because of one offhand remark from Ruth: "If she really loved you, she wouldn't spend a single cent of your money. Otherwise, what makes her different from all those gold-diggers after the Sanchez fortune?"

From our wedding day until now, every expense of mine fell outside the household budget.

The haute couture gowns for galas. The glittering jewelry. Even the luxury car that drove us to events together—

Ruth would extend her palm the moment the party ended, demanding I pay for the ride.

Three short years as Mrs. Sanchez.

I had already burned through every penny I'd saved from my entire working life. My account didn't even have a hundred dollars left.

Where was I supposed to find eight hundred eighty thousand to give Cyril?

The baby in my arms had cried herself hoarse from the fever, her little face scrunched in misery.

I turned pleading eyes to the guard, my voice sinking into the dirt with humiliation.

"I'll find a way to pay it back."

"Please, just this once—let us through. She's premature. She's already in danger being out of the incubator. If this fever keeps climbing, she'll die..."

Three days ago, Ruth's appendicitis had flared up.

The doctor scheduled surgery for three months out—the exact same window as my due date.

Ruth had dissolved into sobs.

"If my surgery happens while she's in labor, you'll abandon me to take care of her, won't you?"

Cyril tried to comfort her.

But Ruth only cried harder.

"You've changed! The old you would never have let me get appendicitis in the first place! Now that you have her, you don't love me anymore—your whole heart belongs to her now! I'm going to tell Mom and Dad in heaven that you're bullying me!"

The moment she threw herself into the pool, they forced the labor-inducing injection into my veins.

Cyril wiped the tears from the corners of my eyes, his voice gentle. "Samantha, she's my only sister. She's young, she gets jealous easily. I need to put her mind at ease. You understand, don't you?"

"Once the baby's born, I'll make it up to you both. Mother and daughter."

"Don't worry. I've got you."

But what came instead was a forged DNA test. A crude, theatrical performance staged for my daughter and me.

Two bodyguards blocked the doorway now, discomfort flickering across their faces—but they held their ground.

"We're sorry, ma'am. Mr. Sanchez gave strict orders before he left. You can't leave until the debt is paid."

In my arms, my daughter had become a furnace in the span of minutes. Her cries were weakening, each whimper fainter than the last.

I was seconds from pressing a blade to my own throat to force them aside when Cyril appeared, his brow furrowed, his expression thunderous.

"Samantha." His voice cut like ice. "This is a hospital, not a street market. All this screaming—did you forget every shred of decorum the Sanchez name should have taught you?" His jaw tightened. "You've disturbed Ruth while she's having her finger treated."

My gaze followed his gesture.

That's when I saw it: a Hello Kitty band-aid wrapped around Ruth's fingertip.

And behind her—over twenty doctors. Trailing after her like an entourage.

Something inside me cracked open.

No wonder no one came when I called. Not a single doctor.

He'd summoned every last one of them for a cut on her finger.

I swallowed the acid rising in my throat and stepped forward, my daughter clutched to my chest. My voice broke. "Nora has a fever. Please—call a doctor."

Cyril's frown deepened. He shifted his weight, about to move—

Ruth doubled over, clutching her abdomen, her voice a silken whimper. "Cyril... it hurts so much. Am I dying?"

His attention snapped to her instantly.

In one fluid motion, he swept her into his arms and barked at the wall of white coats: "Prepare for surgery. Now."

I grabbed his arm, desperate. "Our daughter—"

But Ruth had already wound her arms around his neck, her face buried against his throat.

"I'm so scared," she breathed. "They're going to cut out a piece of me. Will it hurt? Will I die?"

She lifted her head just enough to peer up at him through wet lashes. "Can you have all the doctors in the operating room? The more, the safer, right?" Her lip trembled. "My only regret in this life is never properly repaying everything you've done for me. I don't want to die with that debt unpaid."

Every word dripped honey.

And Cyril—Cyril melted like candle wax.

"Of course." His voice softened to something I hadn't heard in months. "I'll have every doctor in this hospital on standby. The Elite Medical Unit will arrive in ten minutes. I won't let anything happen to you. Not a scratch."

"What about our daughter?"

My knuckles had gone bone-white around her tiny body. I'd bitten through my lip; I tasted copper.

Every doctor on standby for her. Then who saves our child?

Cyril glanced at the bundle in my arms. Irritation flashed across his features.

He turned to the crowd of physicians. "Which one of you is pediatrics? Stay behind. Take a look."

"Cyril," Ruth cooed from the cradle of his arms, "hospitals charge for consultations, you know. And Samantha still owes us eight hundred eighty thousand dollars." A smile curled her lips—saccharine for him, venomous for me. "But for the sake of three years as sisters-in-law, I suppose I could lower myself to help."

Her eyes glittered.

"I'm losing a piece of myself today. She can keep me company."

At her signal, a bodyguard kicked over the medical waste bin.

Needles scattered across the floor. Dozens of them. The fluorescent light caught their tips—cold, sharp, glinting.

Ruth looked down at me from Cyril's arms, chin lifted like a queen passing sentence.

"Pick them all up. Do that, and I'll cover your consultation fee."

Cyril's gaze slid over me—brief, dismissive.

He turned to his assistant. "Do as she says."

Then he strode toward the operating room, Ruth cradled against his chest, and didn't look back.

Not once.