"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.

I knelt on the ground, sweeping my hands across the floor, groping blindly.

Within minutes, all ten fingers were riddled with puncture wounds—skin shredded, blood streaming down my wrists. Not an inch of flesh left intact.

But Nora's cries were growing weaker.

I had no choice. I stuck out my tongue and began to lick the floor, searching for needles by taste.

Half an hour later, I cupped a handful of bloodied needles and looked up at the doctor. When I spoke, blood kept welling from my mouth, spilling down my chin.

"They're all here. Please... save my daughter..."

The words left me, and so did consciousness. I collapsed.

When I woke, the sharp tang of disinfectant filled my nose.

Instinctively, I reached out—but my arms found only empty sheets. No warm little body. No soft breath against my skin.

"Nora..."

I staggered out of bed and lurched toward the Doctor's Office, bare feet slapping against cold linoleum. Through the window, I spotted her—my daughter, cradled in the arms of the female doctor who had treated her last night.

Dr. Hazel Grant rocked Nora gently, feeding her from a bottle. Her eyes were soft with pity.

"What a sin," she murmured. "Born a legitimate heiress, and yet because of that sister's jealousy, she can't even have her own mother's milk. The poor little thing."

Her colleague leaned in, voice dropping low.

"You're telling me. And get this—the paternity test? Mr. Sanchez personally supervised the forgery. The plan is to pin it on the hospital in a year, claim we made the mistake, and use that to coax the mother and daughter back. He threw millions at us to play along with this charade. Rich people and their games, honestly."

"Oh, that's nothing." Dr. Grant's voice turned conspiratorial. "I heard the sister is only adopted. Anyone with eyes can see she's got her sights set on her own brother. Last night during my rounds, I saw her—watched her kiss Mr. Sanchez right on the mouth while he was asleep. Five minutes later, he woke up." She paused meaningfully. "Didn't say a single word."

The two women exchanged knowing looks, lips curling with unspoken judgment.

I sagged against the wall, eyes burning until they ached.

Ruth Sanchez was the Sanchez family's adopted daughter. Because they were siblings in name, every time I showed even a flicker of jealousy, I became the unreasonable one—the woman trying to tear apart a brother and sister's innocent bond.

All Cyril had to do was raise an eyebrow and say, "If it were really as sordid as you imagine, I'd have married her already. You think you'd have had a chance?"

And I would fall silent. Every time.

He was right, wasn't he?

He was the heir to the richest family in the city—untouchable, godlike. And I was just a nine-to-five nobody, punching a clock and scraping by.

So why had he sent me tens of thousands of roses?

Why had he held my hand through the darkest nights after I lost my family, patient and steady when I couldn't stop crying?

Why had he personally dealt with the supervisor who made lewd comments about me at work?

And when that car came barreling toward us—why had he wrapped his body around mine, shielding me so completely that he was the one who ended up in the ICU?

I still remembered our wedding day. The way he'd raised his hand to the heavens and sworn:

"Samantha, I will love you and cherish you for the rest of my life. I will never betray you."

But hearts change in a heartbeat. And "forever" was just something people said to make the moment feel real.

When I looked up again, Cyril was standing in front of me.

I didn't know how long he'd been there.

His eyes met mine—bloodshot, hollow, bruised with exhaustion—and for once, something like concern flickered across his face.

"You just gave birth. Why aren't you resting in bed?"

The scent of Ruth's perfume clung to him, thick and cloying.

It hit my stomach like a fist. I nearly retched.

I stepped back, avoiding his reaching hand.

"You wanted a divorce, didn't you?" My voice came out flat. Dead. "Let's sign it. Now."

Cyril went still.

For a few seconds, he just stared at me. Then his expression hardened, and a cold, mocking smile twisted his lips.

"Samantha, don't be stupid. You don't have a cent to your name. Leave me, and you'll be sleeping on the street tonight—you and that baby both."

I lifted my gaze to meet his. Held it.

"The baby isn't yours anyway," I said, ice in every syllable. "Why do you care?"

The mockery hit its mark.

Cyril's face contorted—Loss control, reached for the fury beneath it. He snatched the divorce papers from his assistant's hands and signed with such force the pen nearly tore through the page.

I reached for the document to add my own signature, but before the ink could dry—

He ripped it from my grasp.

"Ungrateful bitch."

He jabbed a finger toward the hospital entrance, veins bulging at his temple.

"Get out. Get out of my hospital. Now."