Phoebe fell seriously ill. A relentless fever burned through her, and no matter what she ate, it came back up.

"A bunch of useless doctors," Nathan snapped. "I paid you all this money, and you can't even bring down a simple fever?" If the butler hadn't been holding him back, he might have struck someone.

"Madam is pregnant," the doctor explained, his face tight with helplessness. "Most medications aren't safe, and your parents specifically instructed us to avoid using medicine. Right now, the best approach is through dietary therapy to strengthen her body, but she can't keep anything down."

Nathan carried a bowl of porridge to her bedside. He took her hand, his usual coldness replaced by something raw and pleading. "Phoebe, please. For me, for our child, eat something. Just a little, okay?"

Phoebe turned her face away without a word.

In just a few days, she had become a shadow of herself. Her skin was pale, her cheeks sunken, and her once graceful frame had thinned alarmingly. Only her swollen belly remained—a jarring contrast to the rest of her frail body.

"Phoebe, what's wrong?" Nathan's voice trembled as his eyes reddened. "What happened? Can you tell me?"

She wanted to know, too. What had gone so wrong? How had their perfect, happy marriage turned into this?

Why had the man who once loved her so deeply become a liar the moment she got pregnant?

Who could give her an answer?

"Phoebe, I'm begging you," he said, his composure cracking as he pulled her into his arms. "If you'll just eat, I'll do anything you want. I can't lose you or our child. If anything happens to either of you, I'll lose my mind."

Phoebe forced herself upright. He was right—she couldn't die now. If she did, until her last breath, she would still be his wife.

She no longer wanted that. She wanted to leave him.

Suppressing the nausea rising in her throat, she picked up the bowl and took a sip of the porridge.

Seeing her finally eat, Nathan's face lit up with relief. "Phoebe, you're eating! What else do you want? I'll have the kitchen make it for you—no, I'll cook it myself!"

But before his words had fully settled, Phoebe bent forward and vomited everything back up.

Her body was too weak. Even when she forced herself to eat, nothing stayed down. Within a minute, it all came back out.

Left with no choice, Nathan took her to the hospital for observation.

But even after being admitted, her condition remained dire. The attending physician, brows furrowed with worry, gave him a grim assessment. "Mr. Marshal, your wife is not in a condition to continue the pregnancy. If she does, both mother and child will be at serious risk."

"I recommend delivering early," the doctor continued. "Although it's still risky at this stage, the safest window is after six and a half to seven months. We can attempt a cesarean section then."

"Will that endanger Phoebe?" Nathan's voice was tight with panic.

"Our recommendation is based on her current health," the doctor said. "Once the baby is delivered, we can focus entirely on treating her without worrying about complications from the pregnancy."

"Then do it," Nathan said without hesitation. "Get that little brat out of her as soon as possible. How dare he make Phoebe suffer like this? I'll make him pay for it when he grows up—I swear I will."

A nearby nurse, moved by his words, leaned toward Phoebe and whispered, "Your husband loves you so much. Most men, when they come in with their wives for checkups, only care about the baby. And that's if they bother to come at all. Many women have to go through this alone."

"But look at your husband," she added softly. "He cares about you more than anything. He's willing to deliver the baby at six months just to spare you any more pain."

Phoebe smiled faintly but said nothing.

Pregnancy was supposed to be a sacred, joyous experience, the miracle of bringing new life into the world. But why, then, was it filled with so much suffering—for her and for so many others like her?

Phoebe had no intention of keeping the baby.

Quietly, she reached out to her brother. Under his arrangement, she transferred to another hospital.

"Phoebe, why the sudden transfer?" Nathan asked, confusion in his voice. "You're scheduled for a C-section soon. Isn't it risky to change hospitals now?"

"My brother arranged it," Phoebe replied coolly. "He said the doctors here work directly with the military. They're more reliable."

Nathan's doubts eased. "If it's your brother's recommendation, it should be fine."

Phoebe's brother had always been the authority figure in their family. Nathan trusted his judgment without question.

The transfer proceeded smoothly.

The new hospital's plan remained the same—an early delivery. The surgery was scheduled for the following day.

Nathan cleared his schedule. He moved into the hospital to stay by Phoebe's side.

"You don't have to do this," Phoebe said flatly. "You're busy. It's okay if you're not here for this."

The truth was, she didn't want to see him.

"Nothing is more important than you," Nathan said, his voice soft with affection. "You've gone through so much carrying this child. If I leave you now, how could I call myself a man?"

He smiled faintly. "I can't do much to help, but at least I can bring you water tonight."

Phoebe said nothing more.

That night, she woke up needing to use the bathroom. Struggling to sit up, she turned on the light and glanced at the bed beside hers.

It was empty.

Nathan was gone.

A chill crept through her heart. Without hesitation, she picked up her phone. As she expected, a message from Clara awaited her.

[Room 606.]

Following the numbers along the corridor, Phoebe stopped in front of the door. Laughter, soft and teasing, drifted through the crack.

"Master, your little bunny is sick," Clara's voice was sweet, almost cloying. "She needs a big, thick syringe thrust into her body to make her feel better..."

"Are you insane?" Nathan's voice, low and tense, cut through the air. "Why did you come to the hospital? Phoebe's surgery is tomorrow. She can't handle any stress."

"As long as she doesn't find out, what's the harm?" Clara giggled as she slipped her arms around his neck. "Master, your little bunny wore a nurse's outfit just for you. Don't you want to see it?"

He hesitated. It was slight but enough for Clara to press closer. Her hand slid down, fingers deftly working at his belt.

"You've been holding back for so long," she whispered. "Aren't you suffering? Let me help you..."

The sound of his zipper filled the room. Then, slowly, she knelt before him.

His breathing grew heavier. Whatever resistance he had left crumbled as he placed a hand on the back of her head.

The sounds that followed were obscene.

Phoebe closed her eyes, a single tear slipping down her cheek.

She turned and walked away without a word. On the elevator ride down, her fingers trembled as she dialed her brother's number.

"Move the surgery up," she said. "I can't take this anymore. Get this child out of me—tonight."

Disgust twisted in her stomach.

The preparations were swift. Within hours, Phoebe was on the operating table, staring at the bulge of her belly.

Six and a half months. The baby was almost viable.

Could she really kill a child that had already taken shape inside her?

For a long moment, she lay silent.

In the end, she gave him one last chance.

"Call Nathan," she told the doctor. "Tell him the surgery has been moved up. If he comes right away and stays with me, I'll keep the baby. I'll leave with the child and never look back."

Her voice hardened. "If he doesn't, I don't want this child."

She had done nothing wrong. She refused to bear the weight of killing her own child.

If this baby died tonight, the blood would be on Nathan's hands.

"Mr. Marshal, your wife has suddenly developed a high fever and lost consciousness. We can't wake her up." The doctor, following Phoebe's instructions, called Nathan. His voice was tense over the phone. "For her safety, we have no choice but to perform the C-section ahead of schedule. Where are you? You should come immediately."

"...What? The surgery is early?" Nathan's breathing sounded unsteady. "...Okay, wait for me. I'll be there right away."

At the same time, Phoebe made a video call to Clara and pressed record. As expected, Clara answered.

"Master, you wouldn't leave me now, would you?" Her voice was soft and sweet, dripping with feigned innocence. "We just started the foreplay. We haven't even gotten to the good part yet."

"I don't have time. Phoebe is about to give birth. I need to be with her." Nathan hurriedly pulled on his clothes.

"You're not a doctor. What good will you do there?" Clara stepped closer, wrapping her arms around his neck. "What she needs now is a doctor, not you. But your little bunny..." She guided his hand under her skirt. "Your little bunny really needs you right now. Feel for yourself."

Nathan swallowed hard. "...Stop it. Phoebe has suffered so much to give me this child. If I'm not by her side when she delivers, what kind of man would I be?"

"But she's already unconscious. Even if you rush there now, she won't know you came." Clara stood on her tiptoes and whispered against his ear, her breath warm. "Besides, during a C-section, the doctors won't even let you into the operating room. You'll just be waiting outside. Since you're only going to wait, why not stay here and take care of your sick little bunny instead?"

"She won't find out," she added softly, delivering the final blow.

And just like that, Nathan gave in.

He flipped Clara beneath him, pressing her into the bed. "Fine," he growled. "I'll cure your fever properly tonight."

At that moment, something inside Phoebe broke beyond repair.

She ended the video call, turned to the doctor, and said quietly, "Do it."

The cold metal of the surgical instruments entered her body. Even with the anesthesia, the pain was unbearable. It felt as if her soul was being torn apart.

The procedure took over an hour. When it was done, the child was gone.

Phoebe lay pale and drenched in cold sweat. The mattress beneath her was soaked through.

"Miss Harris," the doctor said, "your brother has prepared everything for you—a passport, a visa, and a new identity overseas. There's also a medical team on the plane. If you wish to leave, you can go tonight. Once you leave, your identity here will be erased. Phoebe Harris will cease to exist."

Phoebe closed her eyes. For the first time in months, she smiled—a small, quiet smile from deep within. "I want to leave now," she said.

"Understood. We'll make the arrangements immediately," the doctor replied.

Just before she boarded the plane, the doctor asked, "What should we do with the fetus?"

"Give it to Nathan," Phoebe whispered, her voice weak but steady. "And when you do, tell him this—I was going to keep the baby. If he had kept his promise and stayed with me during the delivery, our child would have lived. But he didn't. When I needed him most—when his child needed him most—he was with Clara. He killed his own flesh and blood."

The medical team lifted her onto the plane.

As the cabin door closed, Phoebe pulled out her phone. She sent Nathan the recorded video and every cruel, taunting message Clara had sent her over the past weeks.

When the files were sent, she handed her phone to the nurse. "Throw it away."

The plane began its ascent. That familiar weightless feeling settled over her.

Through the small window, Phoebe took one last look at the city below.

'Goodbye, Nathan. Don't look for me. Don't apologize. I will never forgive you.'