...

In the hospital's surgical office, Milton was flipping through patient files.

A nurse burst in, clutching a surgical consent form, her voice urgent. "Bad news. It's Miss Gallagher."

He cut her off, his voice flat. "We're done. Don't mention her to me."

She pressed, frantic. "She's been rushed in by ambulance with a massive hemorrhage. We need to transfer blood bags from another hospital. Sign the consent, please."

Milton glanced at the form, then, with a smirk, tore it to shreds. "You think I'd fall for this? Didn't expect her to bribe you all. She is obsessed with me. She'd never lose my kid. Even if she's dying, I'm not signing."

He brushed off her pleading tug and strode out, flipping his phone to do-not-disturb to block any further "schemes".

That night, past 10 p.m., he switched it off. His screen lit up with over 100 missed calls, including dozens from the hospital dean.

Frowning, he muttered, "Claire, bugging the dean now? Talk about shamelessness."

He called to apologize, but the dean's voice was ice. "Get back to the hospital, now!"

The line went dead.

Puzzled, Milton drove over, ignoring Cheryl's pale, fidgety expression in the passenger seat.

The dean always valued his work, and he didn't get the sudden venom. He was ready to give me a piece of his mind for stirring up trouble.

As he stepped out of the elevator, a sharp slap cracked across his face. Stunned, he raised a hand to retaliate, then froze.

There stood Margaret with swollen eyes.

"Mom? What are you doing here?" he stammered.

She roared, her voice raw with fury. "You monster! Why didn't you sign the consent? Because of you, Claire miscarried, hemorrhaged, and lost her uterus."