Franklin's foster sister hitched a ride with me to the mall. The drive was smooth, barely a jolt, yet the moment the car shifted slightly over a speed bump, she clutched her seatbelt dramatically and burst into tears.

Without hesitation, she pulled out her phone and called Franklin, her voice trembling with distress. "Franklin! I almost died! The car was all over the place—I was terrified!" Her words dripped with exaggerated panic and I knew exactly what would come next.

That night, Franklin booked an entire amusement park. The bright neon lights flickered ominously as I stood by the entrance, dread pooling in my stomach.

"What are we doing here?" I asked, pressing a protective hand over my belly. At six months pregnant, exhaustion crept into my bones easily.

Franklin's lips curled into a slow, menacing smirk. "You enjoy a bumpy ride, don't you? Tonight, I'll make sure you get enough of them."

I barely had time to react before his men grabbed my arms and forced me toward the towering spinning disco ride. The seats swaying slightly in the wind. A suffocating sense of foreboding gripped my chest.

"Franklin, stop! Please!" I struggled, my voice rising in panic. "I'm pregnant! You can't do this!"

But he didn't listen. He never did.

Strapped into the seat, I felt the ride jerk to life beneath me. The engines roared, sending tremors through the steel frame. My heart pounded as the machine gained momentum, spinning faster and faster. My cries were swallowed by the howling wind.

"Franklin, please! Stop this! The baby—"

"Melodramatic as always," he sneered from the control booth, watching with amusement. "Pretentious, even. You act like you're dying."

The ride reached its peak speed. The violent motion threw me around mercilessly, my stomach twisting painfully. Agony ripped through my abdomen. A sharp, searing pain. I gasped, barely able to breathe. Something was wrong. Something was horribly, horribly wrong.

Then—

Darkness.

Blood. So much blood.

By the time the ride finally screeched to a halt, my vision was swimming. My body sagged against the restraints, drenched in cold sweat, limbs trembling. The last thing I saw before my consciousness slipped away was Franklin standing there, staring, his expression frozen in shock.

——

"Mr. Gibson? Your wife is in critical condition at the hospital. We need you to come and sign the consent forms immediately."

A pause. The voice on the other end was eerily devoid of concern.

"No need," Franklin replied, his tone indifferent. "Just pull the plug. And tell Quincy to stop playing games and get back home—I don't have time for her nonsense."

The nurse holding the phone gasped. "Huh? Hello? Hello?!"

On the emergency stretcher, my consciousness wavered between the unbearable pain and the cold grip of reality. Struggling, I reached out, weak fingers brushing against the nurse's wrist.

She looked at me, eyes filled with pity.

"Do you have any other family?" she asked gently.

I shook my head. My voice was barely above a whisper. "The baby... save the baby... please..."

And then everything faded to black.

When I woke up, my stomach was flat.

My fingers trembled as they reached down, pressing lightly against the empty space where life had once been.

No...

A deep, bone-chilling emptiness swallowed me whole. I forced myself up, every muscle screaming in protest. Barefoot, I shuffled toward the door.

As I stepped into the hallway, hushed voices reached my ears from the nurse's station.

"That woman is so pitiful. She had massive blood loss and her husband didn't even show up."

"Pitiful? Please. She brought it on herself. A spinning ride at six months pregnant? That's just asking for trouble. If I were her husband, I wouldn't care either. Shame about the baby, though."

"Yeah... It's just so sad. Six months along, yet never even got to live."

Their words sliced through me like shards of glass.

My baby... was gone after all.

The world tilted. My vision blurred. I stumbled backward, legs giving out beneath me.

"Careful!" A pair of strong arms caught me just before I collapsed.

The head nurse shot a sharp glare at the gossiping staff. "What are you doing? I told you to watch the patient and here you are gossiping! Do you want to lose your job?!"

The young nurse who had spoken first looked stricken. She hurried over, helping me back to bed.

Like a lifeless doll, I let her. Tears streaked silently down my face.

Perhaps upset for being scolded, she plopped onto a chair with an annoyed huff. "You just had surgery for excessive bleeding. Can't you stay put? You're just causing trouble for everyone."

I lay still, staring at the ceiling.

Why was I still alive?

My father was gravely ill. My husband tortured me for another woman. And I couldn't even protect my child.

Curling into a ball, silent sobs wracked my body. But no matter how much I cried, the pain never lessened.

That night, I didn't sleep. The shadows stretched long against the walls as dawn approached. Just as exhaustion finally began to pull me under, the shrill ring of my phone shattered the silence.

I reached for it with shaking hands.

"Quincy," Franklin's voice came through, cold and clipped. "I only gave you a mild punishment and you're making a big scene. Why are you running away from home? Haven't you had enough?"

A pause.

"Anya wanted your porridge. She's feeling unwell. I don't care where you are—get back here and make it for her. Now."

Not a single word about the baby. Not a single word about me.

All he cared about was Anya.

I lowered my gaze, yet no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't suppress the sorrow suffocating my heart.

"I can't go home right now..."

I had just begun to explain when Franklin cut me off with a cold, mocking laugh.

"You can't go home? What could possibly be keeping you?"

His voice was laced with impatience and before I could respond, he delivered his final blow. "Quincy, enough with your games. I'm giving you two hours. If you're not back by then, I'll cut off your dad's medication."

My breath hitched sharply. The call ended before I could protest.

I never thought Franklin would use my dad's condition to threaten me.

Back then, when my dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, I had searched everywhere for treatment. But not wanting to be a burden, my dad left a note and disappeared to another city.

I was frantic, searching for him desperately, so lost in my panic that I almost got hit by Franklin's car. Instead of getting angry, he had stepped out, taken one look at my tear-streaked face and gently asked me what had happened.

After hearing my story, he canceled his meetings and mobilized his entire company to help me search for my dad.

Eventually, we found him by a lake—thin, weak, but alive.

Upon learning about my dad's illness, Franklin didn't just offer financial support—he encouraged his employees to contribute as well. Over time, he became a familiar presence, visiting my dad at the hospital and reassuring me that he understood the pain pancreatic cancer patients endured because his grandmother had passed away from the same disease.

Later, he confessed his feelings to me, saying he had fallen for me at first sight. But I had turned him down, fully aware of the gap between our social statuses.

That didn't discourage him. Instead, he began seeking ways to treat pancreatic cancer.

Six months later, he finally heard from a friend about a special batch of medicine overseas—while it couldn't cure the disease, it could significantly alleviate the patient's suffering.

Franklin left his business behind and spent two months abroad to secure the authorization to bring this medicine to the country. As a result, his company lost a 250-million-dollar deal.

I was moved and overwhelmed with guilt, breaking down in his arms. That was the moment I accepted his confession.

All these years, no matter how unpleasant things got between us, he had never used my dad's situation against me. This was the first time—and it made my heart go cold.

I couldn't risk my dad's life.

Enduring the pain, I left a note for the young nurse and slipped out of the hospital. By the time I got home, Franklin was already gone.

Anya was lounging on the sofa in her loungewear, playing on her tablet, her feet happily kicking in the air. She didn't look the least bit unwell.

Seeing me return, she put down her tablet and walked up to me with a sneer, tugging at my hospital gown.

"Oh, you're back? I heard you lost your baby. What are you even coming back for?"

Her tone was mocking, her eyes bright with satisfaction.

"Oh, right. You still have that deadbeat father, barely clinging to life, courtesy of my brother's generosity."

My fists clenched tightly at my sides. I bit my lip, forcing myself to remain calm. In my current state, I couldn't afford to provoke Franklin. And more than anything, I was afraid he'd take his anger out on my father.

"Oh? Why aren't you saying anything? Do you know what you look like right now?"

Anya circled me, her voice dripping with cruelty. "You look like a dog that can't even bark."

Her words stabbed deep, but I refused to react. I forced my pale face to remain expressionless and hurried into the kitchen.

Two hours later, I had finished making the porridge. My arms ached from the effort and sweat dripped from my forehead. The heat from the stove had only worsened my dizziness, but I pushed through, determined to avoid giving Anya any more reasons to torment me.

I placed the bowl carefully on the dining table. Anya scooped up a spoonful, her expression unreadable. But before she could even taste it, she flung the hot porridge at me.

I gasped, but I couldn't dodge in time. The scalding liquid splattered across my chest and forearm, searing my skin.

Anya looked at me in disgust.

"You reek and you still dare to cook for me? Who knows if you put something disgusting in it just to spite me?"

The pain burned deep, but I refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing me break.

I frowned, too exhausted to argue with her.

“I've already made the porridge. Eat it or don't. I'm leaving."

Ignoring her, I turned to walk out, but just as I reached the doorway, a sharp force slammed into my back. Anya had shoved me with all her strength, sending me sprawling onto the floor. The pain shot through my arms as I instinctively tried to break my fall.

Before I could get up, a foot pressed down on my spine, pinning me in place.

"You bitch!" Anya snarled, grinding her heel against my back. "How dare you give me that attitude? My brother doesn't even want you anymore—what the hell are you acting so high and mighty for?"

I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms. But I knew better than to retaliate. Anya thrived on provoking me and I couldn't afford to give Franklin any more excuses to punish me.

"If you know what's good for you, hurry up and divorce my brother and get the hell out of this house!" she spat, her voice dripping with malice.

I felt her foot lift and for a fleeting second, I thought she was done. But then, without warning, she kicked me hard in the ribs. A searing pain ripped through my side, forcing a gasp from my lips. I curled up, clutching my stomach as warm liquid seeped through my hospital gown. Blood. My wound had reopened.

Anya took a step back, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "Somebody, come and throw her out! She's filthy!"

Dragging myself to my feet, I staggered out of the house, gripping the wall for support. My vision blurred from the pain, but I didn't stop until I was far enough away. I told myself that this was it. Anya had her victory. Maybe now, she would finally leave me alone.

But I had underestimated her cruelty.

The very next day, as I lay in my hospital bed, my phone rang. Franklin's name flashed across the screen. My heart pounded as I hesitated before answering.

"Quincy, you vicious woman!" His voice was laced with fury. "Why are you so jealous and spiteful? I only asked you to make some porridge, but you poured boiling hot porridge all over Anya!"

My mind went blank. "What? I didn't—"

"I must've gone too easy on you. This time, you forced my hand."

"What are you going to do, Franklin? I didn't throw porridge at Anya! I didn't! Please, believe me!" My hands trembled as I clutched the phone, desperation clawing at my throat.

But my voice was drowned out by Anya's soft sobbing in the background.

"Franklin, don't be mad at Quincy. It's my fault. I shouldn't have asked her to make porridge for me. She was just angry..."

I could barely breathe. I didn't know if Franklin even heard my pleas before the call ended abruptly. I called him back again and again, but each attempt met the same result—his phone was turned off.

Panicked, I called home instead. The housekeeper picked up and informed me that Franklin had taken Anya to the hospital. I sent him messages explaining the truth, but he never replied.

As dusk approached, I called my father, my only source of comfort. His voice, though weary, was steady. He even chuckled, reminding me gently, "Quincy, make sure you eat well, okay?"

Hearing him treat me like a child made me smile despite the weight in my chest. "I will, Dad. You have to eat well too."

But two days later, my world collapsed.

My father had jumped off the hospital roof.

The moment I heard the news, I tore the IV from my arm and ran from my ward, ignoring the nurse who tried to stop me. My legs carried me as fast as they could to my father's hospital. The attending doctor, his face solemn, handed me a folded piece of paper.

"Miss Quincy... I'm sorry. In a way, maybe it's better that your father is at peace now. He was in so much pain these past few days. Especially the last three days—he wasn't receiving his special medication anymore... He just couldn't endure it any longer."

My breath caught in my throat. "Three days?"

That meant... whether or not I had gone back to make that porridge, Franklin had already decided to cut off my father's medication.

That was my father's life.

Had all of Franklin's words about understanding pancreatic cancer been nothing but lies? He had always spoken so sympathetically, as if he truly understood my father's suffering. But in the end, my father's life meant nothing to him. Less than Anya's fabricated grievances.

My fingers trembled as I unfolded the letter. My father's handwriting, once strong and confident, was now shaky and frail.

[Quincy, from now on, live as you truly wish.]

I didn't understand why he would say that.

My hands clenched around the letter, my nails pressing into the thin paper. I stood there, staring at the lifeless body of the man who had once been my pillar, now lying cold on a stretcher. My chest caved in and the pain was unbearable.

My father was gone.

On the day of his cremation, I didn't inform Franklin. I didn't want him there. But somehow, he found out. Just as the ceremony ended, he rushed to the crematorium.

"Why didn't you tell me about something this important?"

I said nothing. The ashes had already settled and so had my heart.

After ceremony, I finally turned to face Franklin. And I asked him a single question.