While Our Daughter Needed Him, He Chose His Mistress

On my daughter’s birthday, all she wanted was for her father to join her at the amusement park. But Patrick Carlson had already reserved every park in the city to please Laura Cramer. His assistant ripped up our tickets and snapped impatiently, “Madam, you should understand your place. Mr. Carlson is extremely busy right now.”

Across the fence, Patrick was “busy” kissing Laura Cramer. Our six-year-old daughter crawled through the fence, calling for her father, but he shoved her away.

“You know Laura miscarried because of you, and now she's in a fragile state. Yet you bring this child here to provoke her. You are truly heartless.”

He locked my sobbing daughter on a ride, pushed the button, and coldly told me, “You cried and threw a tantrum at home, insisting on coming here. Now you’re playing. Why are you still crying?”

“No one is to stop her without my order. She will have fun. Let’s see if she dares act up with you again.”

With that, he dismissed all the amusement park staff and left with Laura.

When I finally broke the control room glass and rescued my daughter, the blood from the bungee jump machine had already stained the park. I cradled her lifeless body and knelt before the elder of the Carlson family, who had rushed over after hearing the news.

“Patrick killed my daughter. I want him to pay for his blood with blood!”

——

“There’s still hope,” the family doctor said urgently after checking her pulse. “We can get her to the hospital now!”

But when we arrived, the assistant stopped us again. I fell to my knees, desperately pleading.

“Patrick is tormenting me, but please, let me find a doctor for my daughter!”

The elder, furious, raised his crutch and struck the assistant’s leg. “If you delay my granddaughter’s treatment, you’ll die with me!”

The assistant, seeing the blood in my arms, panicked. “But Mr. Carlson took all the doctors in Los Angeles to stay with Laura. No one is available.”

“Damn it!” the elder shouted. He quickly called other hospitals, only to learn that Patrick, fearing Laura might commit suicide from stress, had secured every doctor in town to care for her round-the-clock.

My daughter, growing colder in my arms, caused my hands to shake uncontrollably. At that moment, someone rushed through the door.

“Mr. Carlson sent me,” they said.

I hurried over, only to find a takeaway delivery boy, not a doctor, standing there.

“Mr. Carlson sent you a band-aid,” he said. “He also wanted me to tell you, ‘Bleeding doesn’t kill. Don’t disturb me for something so small.’”

“Monster!” The elder shouted, knocking over the band-aid bag as he collapsed, clutching his chest.

“That woman, Laura, ran off with 300 million in company funds, bankrupting everything. Now, she’s back causing chaos, manipulating Patrick into killing his own child. I won’t let her get away with it.”

He dialed Patrick, but no one answered. Instead, my phone rang. I answered to hear Patrick’s controlled anger.

“Lucia, I know you're unhappy. Laura miscarried because of you. What's wrong with me being with Laura? Must you throw a tantrum in front of Grandpa? And your daughter—she's spoiled. She bleeds a little and acts like she’s dying. I’m not a doctor. Why are you bothering me?”