When my eyes fluttered open, all I saw was white—harsh, sterile, blinding. For a heartbeat, I thought I was already on the other side.

Then the pain crashed over me.

A sharp pulse tore through my head, my ribs ached, and my stomach clenched like it was twisting in on itself. I blinked slowly, trying to focus on the IV hanging beside me, the faint drip of liquid, the wires taped against my bruised skin.

“You’re awake,” came a gentle voice. A nurse stepped closer, clipboard in hand. She looked young, but her eyes carried the weight of someone who’d seen too much suffering. “You’re at St. Luke’s Hospital. Please don’t move too suddenly, okay? You’ve got stitches on your forehead and some nasty bruising. Your body needs time.”

I groaned softly, my throat dry. “My baby…”

Her lips curved into a small, reassuring smile. “Still fighting. You’ve both been through a lot, but your little one’s strong.”

Relief hit me so hard it hurt. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath until then. She gave my arm a light pat before continuing.

“You’ll need to stay under close observation, especially with your diagnosis. We’re giving you medication to stabilize both you and the baby.”

I nodded faintly. “Thank you.”

She hesitated, then asked, “Is there anyone we should contact for you? Family? Your husband?”

The question hollowed me out. Because the only voices I remembered before the darkness were theirs.

“Don’t look at her. You’ll get sick from the blood. Come on, let’s go buy baby clothes.”

Richard’s voice—flat, indifferent.

Camille’s—high and shaking, but I couldn’t tell if it was guilt or performance.

“No,” I said quietly. “There’s no one to call.”

She nodded, wrote something down, and left me in silence.

My hands trembled as I reached for the hospital phone. If they wouldn’t speak the truth, then I would.

I took a steadying breath and dialed.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“I need to report a hit-and-run,” I said, my voice steadier than I expected. “It happened outside St. Luke’s. It wasn’t an accident. It was deliberate.”

“Do you know the driver’s name?” the dispatcher asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Camille Moore.”

I hung up before I could second-guess myself. For the first time in a long while, I felt… brave.

But courage doesn’t last long when you’re alone.

I must’ve drifted off, because the next thing I knew, someone was shaking me hard. Pain shot through my shoulder.

“What the hell did you just do?” Richard’s voice thundered.

I blinked awake, disoriented, only to see his face inches from mine—furious, red with rage. Behind him, Camille stood clutching a tissue, her crocodile tears soaking into it.

“Why are the police questioning Camille?” Richard barked. “Do you have any idea what kind of mess you’ve made?”

“She ran me over,” I croaked. “And she left me there.”

“It was an accident, Serena!” he snapped. “She’s still learning how to drive—”

“Then why didn’t she help me?” I shot back.

“She panicked! You blew this out of proportion. You didn’t need to involve the police—you could’ve just talked to me!”

“Talked?” I let out a shaky laugh. “Like when you joked about me dying?”

Camille sniffed, her voice small. “I didn’t mean for it to happen…”

“Don’t apologize to her,” Richard hissed, rounding on her. “She’s the one at fault here. You terrified her with this police stunt. Do you realize the damage this could cause? Your mother will find out. She’ll side with Camille again. You’ll lose everything.”

I clenched my fists beneath the blanket. “I don’t care anymore.”

“You should,” he said, his tone dropping to something dark and dangerous. “Now get up and apologize.”

“What?” My voice trembled.

“Apologize to her. Now.”

I stared at him in disbelief. “You want me to say sorry—for being run over?”

He grabbed my wrist and yanked me forward until my knees hit the cold tile floor. “You scared her. You owe her that.”

Tears burned down my face as I forced the words out. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“Louder,” he demanded.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated, my voice cracking.

Camille placed a delicate hand on his arm, her tone soft. “It’s okay. She’s just emotional.”

But I saw the faint smirk that flickered on her lips. The same one she wore years ago when she’d framed me for breaking my mother’s antique vase. She’d cried then too, convincing everyone it was my fault. I’d been punished while she walked away smiling.

And now, years later, she was still doing the same thing—taking everything from me while pretending to care.

They left soon after, the door clicking quietly behind them. The silence they left behind felt heavier than before.

That was my breaking point.

With shaking fingers, I reached for the phone once more and dialed the number that had lived in the back of my mind for years.

One ring. Two.

“Val?” came the voice on the other end.

“Drake…” My voice trembled.

“Serena? Are you okay?” he asked quickly.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and said the words I never thought I’d say.

“I’m ready. I’ll marry you. Just… come get me.”

“Drake,” I whispered into the receiver, voice trembling, “I’m saying yes. I’ll marry you. Please… come and get me.”

There was silence—then his familiar, smooth drawl, laced with sarcasm. “Really now? The woman who once told me she’d never say those words? What changed? Don’t tell me your perfect husband finally showed his true colors.”

I swallowed hard, the ache in my chest cutting deep. “He did,” I said flatly. “I’m filing for divorce.”

A low, humorless chuckle came through the line. “About time. End whatever tie you have with him—I’m claiming what’s mine now.” He paused for a beat. “Five days. I’ll come for you then.”

The call ended with a soft click, leaving me staring at the silent phone. My hands were trembling, my thoughts spinning between grief, anger, and an unsettling sense of relief. I didn’t give myself time to hesitate—I dialed my lawyer next.

“I want to file for divorce,” I said, the words sharp and certain.

There was a sigh on the other end. “Serena, your family has strict conditions. You can’t initiate a divorce unless we can present evidence—proof of adultery, abuse, or neglect. You know the clause in your marriage contract.”

“I’ll find proof,” I replied without hesitation. “Just… don’t tell my family until it’s done.”

“Understood. Stay careful, Serena.”

The line went dead, and I was left in a room that felt far too quiet. No visitors. No flowers. Not even a call from my mother. They all knew where I was—and still, no one came.

The next morning, I made the mistake of checking my phone. The first thing I saw was Camille’s social media post. A wall of pastel baby clothes, stuffed toys, and a caption full of hearts and lullaby emojis.

But what shattered me wasn’t the post—it was the background.

It was my bedroom.

They had turned my room into a nursery. Without telling me. Without asking.

My vision blurred, and my chest seized up. My breaths came out shallow and quick—I could barely reach the emergency button before the room started spinning.

Voices surrounded me—doctors shouting, nurses rushing. I caught fragments of their words, each one sharper than the last.

“She’s hyperventilating.”

“BP dropping.”

“Her body can’t take much more stress.”

Then came the one sentence that made my blood run cold.

“We may have to terminate the pregnancy.”

“No!” My scream ripped from my throat. “Please, don’t! Don’t take my baby—save us both, please!”

The doctor’s expression was tight, professional. “We’ll try our best, but for the alternate treatment, we’ll need your husband’s written consent.”

My stomach sank. I didn’t want to call him—but I had no other choice.

He picked up after a few rings, voice clipped. “What now?”

My words came out in sobs. “They need your approval to start treatment. I—I don’t want to lose the baby. Please.”

A long pause. Then his tone turned cold and sharp. “Save the baby. That’s my heir. I don’t care what happens to Serena. Just make sure the child survives—or I’ll sue the hospital.”

Then the line went dead.

The world faded with it.

When I woke again, the room was quiet—too quiet. My body felt hollow. I already knew before anyone said it.

The nurse’s eyes said everything.

“No…” My voice cracked. “No, no, no—”

But the baby was gone.

The tears came soundlessly, breaking something deep inside me that words couldn’t touch.

Then I heard shouting in the hallway.

“You should’ve saved the baby!” Richard’s voice was raw with rage. “Why the hell is she still alive? That baby was mine!”

“The decision was made based on survival odds,” the doctor replied firmly. “Someone came earlier claiming to be her husband and signed the consent form. It was the only life we could save.”

“What are you talking about? I’m her husband!” Richard barked. “Who was that man?”

“He had valid identification and matching authorization,” the doctor said calmly. “We confirmed before proceeding.”

Moments later, the door burst open. Richard’s face was red, his eyes blazing. “Who was it, Serena? Are you cheating on me now?”

My heart raced. “What? No! I don’t even know who he was—maybe someone who wanted to help—”

“If I ever find out you’re lying,” he snarled, jabbing a finger toward me, “I’ll kill you. You’re not leaving me.”

I stared at him, hollow and numb. “Why? Why keep me? The baby’s gone. There’s nothing left.”

His voice turned low, dangerous. “You’re still mine.”

Then he stormed out, leaving the door swinging behind him.

Two days later, they discharged me. I felt like a ghost, every step heavy with loss.

And there they were—Richard and Camille—standing by the car, talking like nothing had happened. I froze just in time to hear her whisper, venom dripping from every word, “She should’ve died.”

Richard shrugged casually. “It’s fine. I’ll handle her during the anniversary party. Maybe push her off the building—perfect timing for the merger celebration.”

My blood turned to ice.

They stopped when they noticed me. Camille rushed over, feigning concern. “Serena! You’re finally out—we were so worried.”

I said nothing. I just got in the car.

During the drive, their flirtations filled the silence—his hand brushing her leg, her laughter echoing like nails against glass. I sat in the backseat, gripping my phone.

I typed a message to Drake: Thank you for saving me. I’ll be ready before the anniversary. Please come.

His reply came instantly: I’ll be there. And this time, I won’t let you go.

The glow of the screen caught Richard’s eye. “Who are you texting?”

I quickly deleted the thread. “No one.”

He grabbed my phone and scrolled furiously before tossing it out the window. “Don’t ever ignore me when I’m talking.”

I shifted my eyes toward the window, saying nothing.

None of it mattered now.

In just a few days, I’d be gone—and this time, it would be for good.

The instant I entered the mansion, the familiar scent of roses enveloped me—but beneath it was a foul undertone, the unmistakable odor of betrayal. My body was still fragile, scarcely recovered from the hospital, yet what I found inside stripped away whatever little strength remained in me.

A sharp crack echoed through the hall.

My mother’s hand had struck my cheek.

“You killed my grandchild!” Sasha screamed, her voice trembling with fury.

I staggered back, clutching my burning face. This was the same woman who once looked at me with pride when she confessed that I was her true daughter. Now her eyes burned with hatred.

“You couldn’t even protect your own baby! Worthless!” she spat. “You should’ve never gotten pregnant if you were too fragile to handle it!”

“I tried,” I whispered, barely audible. “I did everything I could.”

Sasha scoffed. “Camille would’ve never let that happen.”

And then Camille appeared—serpent-smooth, her smile gentle and her tone dripping with false concern. “Mother, please… don’t be too harsh on her. Serena didn’t mean for this to happen. She’s just… unwell.”

“Stop defending her,” Sasha snapped. “You’ve always been the better one, Camille. So perfect. So dependable. Serena was a mistake from the start—”

My chest tightened.

“—I regret ever telling the family she was my real daughter. I should’ve left her where she came from.”

Camille’s lips curved, soft and poisonous. “Don’t worry, Mother. I’ll give you a grandchild soon.”

Sasha’s anger melted into pride. “Whoever gives me an heir will inherit everything.” Her icy gaze turned back to me. “Tomorrow’s the anniversary party. Don’t embarrass me again.”

She left, her perfume lingering like poison in the air.

Moments later, Richard walked in, dressed to perfection, his voice smooth as ever. “Don’t worry,” he said to Sasha’s retreating figure. “I’ll handle my wife. She’ll behave. It’s an important day—for both the merger and the family.”

Sasha nodded approvingly before disappearing down the hall.

That night, Richard brought dinner to my room—chicken soup, my favorite. His tone softened, pretending remorse. “I’m sorry, Serena. About the baby. About everything.”

I said nothing. I’d heard this act too many times before.

Then his phone rang. His expression shifted when he saw the caller ID. “Camille?”

Her voice shrieked through the speaker. “Richard! I twisted my ankle! Please, come help me!”

Without hesitation, he set the bowl down. “I’ll be back soon. Rest, alright?”

The door clicked shut.

I got up and began to pack. Quietly, deliberately. My few cherished belongings went into the bag—letters, an old photograph, my father’s scarf. Then I opened a wooden box filled with the remnants of our life together: love notes, movie tickets, dried roses. Lies pressed between pages of pretend affection.

I carried the box to the garden. The night was still, the air cold. One by one, I fed each memory to the flames.

As the fire grew, I remembered our beginning—my eighteenth birthday, when Richard first danced with me under the chandeliers. I’d been young, hopeful, ready to believe in love. Camille had smiled and said, “You deserve him, you’re the real daughter.”

A lie that changed everything.

Tears blurred my vision. I wasn’t mourning Richard or even the baby. I was mourning the foolish girl I once was.

Then—pain.

A sudden shove sent me stumbling forward, my arm grazing the fire. I screamed as heat seared my skin.

“Oops!” Camille’s bright, mocking voice cut through the night. “I didn’t mean to! You were too close—I just wanted to help!”

The throbbing in my arm was unbearable, but worse was the satisfaction gleaming in her eyes.

“I swear I was trying to stop her!” she cried, feigning panic. “She was throwing things into the fire and almost fell in herself!”

The door burst open. Richard came running, phone in hand. “What the hell happened?!”

“She’s still upset,” Camille said quickly, tears glistening in her eyes. “I tried to calm her, but she wouldn’t listen. Then she pushed the box too close—look what happened!”

Richard’s glare landed on me. “Serena! Are you trying to create a scene before tomorrow? Haven’t we talked about this?”

I could’ve screamed the truth. I could’ve told him she pushed me. But what was the point?

I met his eyes—those same eyes that once made me believe in safety—and whispered, trembling, “You truly disappoint me.”