Else snatched the signed papers from his hands, a victorious grin plastered on her face. She followed Nurse Jenna down the hall to the blood draw room, practically skipping.

The bag of blood, warm with Else's body heat, was rushed into the operating room. The dark red liquid snaked down the IV line, slowly entering Crista's veins.

The frantic beeping of the monitors began to slow, the rhythm stabilizing. Caleb let out a long breath as her blood pressure crept up.

But then he looked down at the uterus. The damage from the secondary hemorrhage was catastrophic. He shook his head, a look of profound sadness in his eyes. "The bleeding has stopped," he announced to the room, his voice heavy. "But the trauma to the uterine wall is irreversible. We couldn't save her fertility."

Outside in the hall, Conrad sat slumped in a chair, his head in his hands. He looked like a man who had been hollowed out from the inside.

Meanwhile, on the top floor of the hospital, a very different scene was playing out.

In the hospital president's office, Cristin slid a check across the desk. It had a lot of zeros.

Dr. Croft, the president, stared at the check, swallowing hard. But he hesitated. "This is a HIPAA violation," he said nervously. "Altering medical records is a federal offense."

Cristin gave him a cold, sharp smile. "If you don't do it, the Cherry family will withdraw every cent of funding for the new hospital wing. We'll make sure your name is mud in this city."

Dr. Croft's resistance crumbled. He turned to his computer and logged into the electronic medical records system.

With a few clicks, he deleted the notes about the successful uterine repair. In their place, he typed in a new diagnosis: "Irreversible severe trauma resulting in permanent infertility."

The printer hummed, spitting out the falsified report, complete with the hospital's official red seal. Cristin snatched it up, slipping it into her purse with a satisfied nod.

Downstairs, the OR light finally clicked off. Caleb walked out, pulling down his surgical mask. He looked exhausted.

Conrad shot to his feet, rushing over. "How is she? Is the baby...?"

Caleb looked at him, his face devoid of any emotion. "She's alive. But she will never be able to have children again."

The words hit Conrad like a physical blow. He stumbled backward, his back hitting the wall with a thud.

Caleb stepped closer, grabbing Conrad by the collar. He spoke in a low, dangerous voice. "If you come near her again, if you cause her one more second of pain, I will kill you myself."

He shoved Conrad away. Conrad didn't fight back. He just stood there, staring at the wall, his soul seemingly extinguished.

Crista was wheeled into the ICU. She was hooked up to a dozen machines, her face as pale as the sheets.

As Conrad moved toward the glass window to look at her, Dr. Croft approached, holding the falsified report.

The president put on a somber face. "Mr. Anderson, I'm afraid I have some terrible news regarding Mrs. Anderson's future fertility."

He handed over the paper. Conrad took it with shaking hands. He read the words "permanent infertility" over and over again. The guilt that crashed over him was suffocating.

He believed he had done this. He believed that his actions on that freezing beach had destroyed her chance to ever be a mother.

Cristin stepped out of the shadows, sighing dramatically. "The Anderson family can't have an infertile matriarch. It's a tragedy, really."

She touched Conrad's arm, her voice soft and persuasive. "You've already signed the papers, Conrad. Let her go. Don't torture her anymore. Don't torture yourself."

Conrad looked through the glass at the unconscious woman in the bed. The pain in his chest was so intense he thought his heart would stop. He was the source of all her suffering. He was the poison in her life.

To protect her from himself, driven by an overwhelming sense of self-loathing, Conrad made a coward's choice. He would let her go. He didn't go inside. He just stood there, staring at her through the glass, his hand crushing the fake medical report. Then, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the empty hall. He walked away, but a frantic voice in his head screamed that he couldn't just leave her with nothing in this cold world. The crushing guilt demanded he stay far away from her, but some deeper, unacknowledged instinct-a desperate need to still be tethered to her-forced him to decide he would provide for her from the shadows.

Inside the ICU, a single tear slid down Crista's cheek, as if even in her coma, she could feel the finality of his departure.

Three days later, Crista was transferred to a regular room. She opened her eyes, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Audrey sat beside her, holding her hand, her eyes red. "Crista," she whispered, her voice cracking. "The baby... the baby didn't make it."

Crista didn't scream. She didn't cry. She just closed her eyes, letting a single tear trace a path down her temple. The silence was louder than any wail.

A knock came at the door. Conrad's chief lawyer walked in, his expression stiff and professional. He carried a thick briefcase.

He placed the divorce agreement and a property settlement list on the nightstand. "Mrs. Anderson," he said formally. "Mr. Anderson wishes to expedite the process."

Audrey jumped up, reaching for the papers to tear them apart. "Get out!" she yelled.

"Stop," Crista said. Her voice was weak, but it stopped Audrey in her tracks.

Crista pressed the button to raise the bed. She took the document, her eyes landing on the last page. There, in Conrad's bold, sweeping handwriting, was his signature.

That signature used to be a symbol of her dreams. Now, it looked like a death sentence, burning her eyes.

The lawyer cleared his throat. "According to the prenuptial agreement, you will receive a minimal cash settlement. You are also bound by a strict non-disclosure agreement."

A cold, mocking smile touched Crista's lips. She didn't hesitate. She picked up the pen and signed her name right next to his.

The scratch of the pen on the paper was loud in the quiet room. It was the sound of a three-year marriage dying.

The lawyer gathered the documents, gave a slight bow, and left. The room felt instantly colder.

Audrey threw her arms around Crista, sobbing. "What are you going to do? What's going to happen now?"

Crista patted her friend's back. When she pulled away, the emptiness in her eyes was gone, replaced by a sharp, steely glint.

"The weak, pathetic Mrs. Anderson is dead," Crista said, her voice steady. "Crista Cherry is back."

The scene shifted. Across town, in the top-floor executive office of the Anderson Group, Conrad stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the Manhattan skyline.

The lawyer walked in, placing the signed divorce papers on the massive desk.

Conrad looked down at Crista's neat, delicate signature. A sudden, sharp pain lanced through his chest, as if a vital organ had just been ripped out.

He pushed the feeling down, turning to his assistant, Alex. His voice was cold. "Buy the Brooklyn loft she lived in before we got married. Do it quietly."

Alex blinked in surprise, but he knew better than to ask questions. "Yes, sir."

Conrad stared out at the gray clouds gathering over the city. He told himself it was just guilt. It was just compensation. It had nothing to do with love.

Back at the hospital, Crista pulled the IV needle out of her hand. Ignoring Audrey's protests, she insisted on being discharged. "I can't stay in this room anymore, Audrey," she said, her voice eerily calm as she swung her pale legs over the edge of the bed. "I need to pack."