The Seventh Letter in the Mailbox

By my fourth year bound to the System, I was finally carrying a child for the heir of the Capital’s most powerful family.

The System had informed me that the Ellie family’s young master had a congenital condition—conceiving an heir would be difficult. My task was simple: successfully deliver a child worthy of the family’s legacy, one capable of continuing its fortune, and I could go home.

But on the very day I struggled into labor, Lu Alan walked into my delivery room with the woman he truly loved.

“Ellie, Janet graduated at the top of her class from medical school. You don’t mind if she observes, do you?”

Trembling with pain, I couldn’t form a reply. I could only lift a hand, begging the doctor for a C-section.

His precious Janet offered a slight, curling smile. “Sister Ellie, other women manage a natural birth. Why can’t you? It’s better for the baby, anyway.”

Lu Alan’s expression turned cold. “We’ll do as Janet says. Natural birth. She’s only here to have a baby—what gives her the right to be picky?”

I wanted to rise and slap them both, but pain held me down, drenched in cold sweat and powerless.

I finally snapped. “This is your only child! Are you going to stand there and watch him die?”

...

My nails dug deep into my palms. That sharp sting was all that kept me conscious.

“Lu Alan,” I said through gritted teeth, each word deliberate, “this is *my* delivery room. Please ask all non-essential personnel to leave.”

Janet stood there in a spotless white coat, an innocent smile on her face. She shrank timidly behind Lu Alan, her voice barely a whisper. “Alan, perhaps I should go. Miss Ellie doesn’t seem to want me here.”

Immediately, Lu Alan’s brow furrowed. His gaze swept over me, brimming with impatience and reproach.

“Ellie, what are you making a scene about now? Janet only wants to help. You’re not the only woman in the world to give birth. Don’t be so fragile.”

His words struck like a poisoned blade, right where it hurt most.

For four years, I had given up everything for this child.

No makeup, none of my favorite foods. Every day monitored like a penned animal by nutritionists and physicians.

And Lu Alan, the child’s so-called father, had contributed nothing but a name.

He still went everywhere with his precious Janet. The whole city knew she was the one in Young Master Ellie’s heart.

I, Ellie, was merely a wife in name. A breeding tool.

Watching him defend her, I suddenly laughed. I laughed until tears streamed down my face.

“Fine. I won’t be fragile.”

Gasping, I turned to the doctor beside me. “Doctor, I can’t bear the pain any longer. I want a C-section.”

The lead surgeon, Dr Jeffrey, had overseen my entire pregnancy—a professional, responsible man.

He checked my vitals and nodded at once. “Mrs Ellie, your condition does justify a C-section. I’ll prepare immediately.”

But as he turned to leave, Janet spoke up.

“Dr Jeffrey, wait.”

She stepped toward the monitors, pretending to study the data, then adopted a clinical tone. “I believe Miss Ellie’s condition is perfectly suited for a natural delivery. And it *is* better for the baby. Don’t you agree, Alan?”

Her eyes, seemingly pure and harmless, now held a venomous hook as she fixed them on Lu Alan.

He seized her words like a lifeline. Without hesitation, he told Dr Jeffrey, “We’ll do as Janet says. Natural birth.”

Dr Jeffrey was stunned. “Mr Ellie, but your wife—”

“No ‘buts.’”

Lu Alan’s voice was cold, hard as iron. “She’s here to have a baby, nothing more. What right does she have to choose? The child’s welfare is the only consideration.”

In that moment, my world shattered completely.

I looked at this man—my husband in name, the father of my child—and saw how easily he dismissed my agony and my will for the sake of another woman.

So I wasn’t just a tool. I was a disposable one. To be used and cast aside at will.

“Lu Alan,” my voice trembled with despair, “you’ll regret this.”

He answered with a cold laugh, utterly indifferent. “In all my life, I’ve never learned the meaning of ‘regret.’”