Three months into my pregnancy, my husband suddenly asked for a divorce.

I rushed to find him, only to overhear him chatting with a friend, claiming he had been reborn—that he'd come back in this life specifically to make things right with his childhood sweetheart, Delia Pruitt.

His friend was stunned. "Are you out of your mind? Your wife is three months pregnant. Aren't you afraid she'll get so angry she'll terminate the pregnancy?"

James Stevens laughed it off, utterly unconcerned. "Why would I worry? Linda Hayward went through ten rounds of IVF to finally get pregnant. There's no way she'd just throw that away."

"Besides," he continued, "if she divorces me, she can go back to her parents. But Delia has no family. After divorcing that deadbeat, she's been raising her kid all alone. Do you know how hard that is?"

"I've got it all figured out. Once Delia's child turns ten, I'll go back to Linda. It's only five years. No big deal."

I stood frozen outside the door, numb to my core. My fingers moved on their own, dialing a number.

"Hello. I'd like to schedule an abortion. As soon as possible."

Later, James deliberately arranged for us to finalize our divorce on the same day he and Delia would register their marriage.

But this time, things were different.

That day, the man who had always been so aloof, so coldly composed, looked like he'd lost his mind. His eyes locked onto my flat stomach, his voice cracking with something close to hysteria. "Where's my child? Where's our child?"

"You promised me you wanted to have a baby with me!"

...

"Linda, are you sure you want to go through with this? After everything you went through for this baby..."

My mother's voice broke over the phone, and guilt twisted in my chest.

She had been the happiest person in the world when she found out I was pregnant.

She knew what it had cost me.

A full year of choking down bitter herbal medicine. Nine failed IVF cycles. It wasn't until the tenth attempt that I finally conceived.

The moment the test results came back positive, my mother had wept with joy.

She believed that with a child, James and I would finally settle into a real marriage. That he would step up, become a responsible husband, learn to put family first.

But today, I realized how terribly wrong we had both been.

The phone rang, sharp and insistent. I answered mechanically.

James's voice cut through, cold and harsh. "Linda, how much longer are you going to drag this out?"

"Even if I can't divorce you while you're pregnant, the moment that baby is born, I'm filing immediately."

"And let's be real—raising a child costs money. You've done nothing but sit at home since we got married. Eating my food. Spending my money. All you do is a little housework. That's it."

"No one's going to want a woman who just gave birth and comes with a brat attached. You have no income, no prospects. When the time comes, you won't get to keep the child. You won't get to keep me. You'll have nothing."

Every word dripped with contempt. He reduced everything I'd given to this marriage—every sacrifice, every exhausting day—to nothing. And he called my baby a brat.

It felt like a blade dragging across my heart, slicing it open all over again.

"James." My voice came out quiet, steady.

He went silent on the other end.

"I agree to the divorce."

A pause. Then his tone shifted, bright with barely contained excitement. "Really? Great. Let's do it in five days."

His voice softened, turning almost coaxing. "Linda, don't worry. I just want to take care of Delia and her child. I won't cross any lines."

"Focus on your health. Have the baby safely. I'll come visit you and the child once a month."

"I've already bought so many clothes for the baby. I even picked out a name..."

He sounded almost giddy. But my mind was already drifting, detaching from his words.

In that moment, I knew I had truly let him go.

A soft chime broke through the haze. A text notification.

My gaze dropped to the screen.

Dear Ms. Hayward, your abortion procedure is scheduled for three days from now.

That night, I drifted into a hazy sleep.

Suddenly, I found myself standing in a frozen wasteland. The blizzard raged with terrifying force, the cold cutting straight to my bones. My whole body went rigid, and just as I was about to collapse, a gentle warmth spread from my belly. A soft, childlike voice called out beside my ear: "Mommy..."

I trembled, instinctively reaching to embrace it.

The little orb of light was so small—I could hold it completely in both hands—yet it was so warm. So warm that tears nearly spilled from my eyes.

"I'm sorry..."

I whispered the apology, and then tiny, warm fingers gently wiped the tears from my face.

The child's voice was impossibly tender, filled with infinite longing and reluctance to part.

I tried to grasp those little fingers, but the child's form grew fainter and fainter.

No!! In that moment, my heart felt like it was being carved out. I desperately tried to hold on—

"Baby!!"

I jolted awake from the nightmare. A dull ache throbbed in my lower belly, but before I could gather my thoughts, a gentle male voice reached me:

"Nightmare?"

James sat at the edge of my bed, his face full of concern.

"Why are you here?"

He smiled helplessly. "This is our home. Why wouldn't I be? Linda, you—"

Before he could finish, a child's shrill cry cut him off.

The next second, the door slammed open and a five-year-old boy charged in like a cannonball. "Daddy!!"

It was Delia's son, Charlie Abbott.

The boy had complained that not having a father made him a target for bullying. Without hesitation, James let him call him "Daddy" and treated him like his own son.

Charlie hugged James from behind. James asked, "Didn't we agree you'd wait outside like a good boy?"

The child glared at me with venom in his eyes. "I was scared the bad woman would bully Daddy!"

Then, before anyone could react, he scrambled onto the bed, jumped up, and stomped down hard on my stomach.

"Ahh!"

I'd barely slept the night before. My head was spinning, and in that split second, there was no time to dodge.

His foot landed squarely on my lower abdomen. Searing pain tore through me. My back arched involuntarily, cold sweat breaking out across my skin.

"Linda!"

James yanked Charlie away and grabbed my shoulders, his face urgent. "What's wrong?"

I couldn't speak through the pain. Black spots swam across my vision. My belly felt like it was being twisted apart.

I tried to call for help, but a woman's shrill voice drowned me out: "Charlie! James—"

Delia rushed in. Seeing Charlie sitting on the edge of the bed looking dazed, she immediately pulled him into her arms. "Charlie, what happened? Did you get into trouble again?"

Charlie burst into tears. "I didn't do anything! I didn't even step on Auntie, but she screamed so loud!"

James's hands on me went still.

Delia's eyes instantly reddened. "James, maybe we should just forget about what we discussed before."

"Charlie and I are all alone in this world... We just can't compete..."

Her voice cracked. Her expression was pure devastation—as if she'd suffered a thousand injustices.

She didn't finish, but James understood her meaning immediately.

"Don't talk nonsense," he said firmly. "I told you I'd take care of you both. I won't go back on my word."

His cold gaze fell on me. "Linda, are you really so desperate to keep me that you'd frame a child?"

His grip tightened around my wrist—so hard I heard my bones creak. But the worse pain was in my belly.

The little life connected to my blood was slipping away. I thought of last night's dream—

Instinctively, I clutched at James's sleeve, my voice weak and trembling. "Help me... my stomach hurts so much..."

But James's face remained cold. "Stop pretending. In my past life, you gave birth to our son just fine. Nothing's going to happen this time either."

The pain was so intense I couldn't form words. Perhaps my expression was too agonized to ignore—James seemed half-convinced and moved to help me up.

But Delia grabbed his arm. "James, let me take a look. I've been through childbirth before. I have experience."

She pushed Charlie into James's arms. He seemed about to say something, but the boy's whimpering cut him off. James cradled the child carefully, patting his back as he drifted toward the window, murmuring soft reassurances.

Delia approached me and slowly pulled back the covers. Her eyes widened in what looked like surprise.

Bright red blood was seeping from between my legs, soaking through my nightgown.

She smiled. "Oh my, there's nothing wrong at all! Linda, you're being so dramatic."

James's expression turned icy.

"Linda, I knew you were faking it!"

Delia gave him a coy smile. "Wives are meant to be pampered, aren't they? If she's this delicate, you'll just have to spoil her a little more."

"If she can't handle this much pain, imagine what childbirth will be like. You'd better book her an epidural in advance."

Then her face shifted to something pitiful. "Though I heard epidurals and C-sections can affect the baby. For Charlie's sake, I just gritted my teeth and pushed through."

James scoffed. "She's not getting an epidural. My son will be well-behaved. She'll deliver naturally without any of that."

Pride dripped from every word. A flash of jealousy flickered through Delia's eyes.

By then, my consciousness was fading. In the last moment before everything went dark, I saw Delia pulling him toward the door.

Despair, endless and absolute, crashed over me.

When I woke again, the sharp smell of disinfectant filled my nostrils.

A wave of pain tore through my lower body. I groaned involuntarily—and someone gripped my hand tight.

"Linda!!"

Mom. Dad.

My mother's usually immaculate hair was disheveled, her eyes swollen and red. When she saw me awake, her voice broke. "Linda, it's okay. It's going to be okay..."

It took me a moment to register where I was—lying on a gurney being rushed toward the operating room.

"Doctor, the patient is hemorrhaging!"

"We may not be able to save the baby. Where's her husband? We need his signature for the procedure."

"She's my daughter—I can sign! Doctor, please, you have to save her—"

"Hospital policy requires the patient's husband for emergency procedures of this nature. It may affect her future fertility."

The doctor's urgent commands, my mother's pleas, my father's furious voice—all tangled together in chaos.

I lay there gasping, fighting wave after wave of agony. Then I heard my father on the phone with James.

"James Stevens! Get to this hospital. Now!"

The voice on the other end sounded surprised. "Dad? Is Linda throwing another fit about going to the hospital? Ever since she got pregnant, she's been paranoid, always convinced something's wrong with the baby."

"It's just pregnancy. A friend of mine was unclogging toilets, changing lightbulbs, and hauling packages when she was months along."

"Linda is just too delicate."

Each word was an accusation. My father's rage finally boiled over. His voice came out through gritted teeth: "If you don't get here right now, the Hayward family will never let this go."

James had built his company himself, but many of his connections had come through my father. There was a hesitation on the other end of the line.