Today was supposed to be a routine prenatal check-up.

But instead of taking me to the usual clinic, Ethan brought me to a private ward tucked away in the hospital’s restricted section.

Surrounded by advanced, almost clinical-looking equipment, a cold unease seeped into my chest.

Ethan gently patted my head and spoke with soft reassurance.

"I'm only thinking of the baby’s well-being. I don’t want anything to go wrong. These tests are necessary. Thank you, my love, for enduring all of this."

A needle—almost half the length of my forearm—was slowly inserted into my abdomen. I shuddered violently, the pain sharp and immediate.

I begged the doctor for anesthesia, but Ethan stepped forward with an apologetic look.

"Can you bear it just a little longer? Anesthesia might risk the baby. You’re a strong mother, Samantha. For Grace’s sake, please hold on."

The pain grew so intense that everything began to blur. In the haze, I finally realized the truth: this wasn’t a standard prenatal procedure.

It was an amniocentesis—he was having a genetic test done.

He wanted to know if the kidneys of the baby inside me were compatible with Henry.

Time crawled. When the needle was finally withdrawn, I collapsed on the bed, completely drained.

Without even glancing at me, Ethan followed the doctor out, leaving me alone in the sterile ward.

I stared blankly at the dark puncture mark on my stomach. A black hole, both literal and symbolic.

Tears ran freely down my face, but inside, I was already calculating, remembering.

Ethan and I had known each other since childhood. We were engaged young.

He had always been my protector—indulgent, patient. I was reckless and emotional, and he always took my side.

Whenever I got into trouble, he was the first to shield me, calling himself my knight, saying he would always guard his princess.

But that changed when I turned twelve. That was when the uninvited guest arrived.

Ruth Wheeler showed up at our doorstep, claiming her mother had died and she had no choice but to seek out her biological father—my father.

That night, I remember my father falling to his knees before my mother, and my mother sobbing endlessly.

Eventually, Ruth was accepted into the household as my sister.

I resented her and often poured out my frustrations on Ethan.

He once cornered her in an alley and gave her a warning—for me.

Back then, I believed he loved me more than anyone in the world.

But now, that same man had become the one who hurt me most deeply.

I don’t know how long I lay there before he returned. My tears had dried, leaving only emptiness.

Ethan looked elated. He rushed over, hugged me tightly, kissed me repeatedly, and said with joy in his voice:

"Our baby is healthy—so healthy! I’m so relieved. Samantha, this time, I’ll protect her, truly. I won’t let anything harm her ever again!"

His words were hollow, and I felt only bitterness.

So this was the result he wanted—the child is a successful match for Henry, isn’t she?

His efforts to "protect" me, to keep me well—it was all so he could harvest another life.

As we prepared to leave the hospital, fate delivered a cruel twist.

In the outpatient hall, we ran into Ruth.

The little boy clinging to her hand was full of energy, skipping and laughing.

The last time I saw him, he was pale and frail, clinging to life.

And now, lively and healthy—paid for my daughter's life.

I must’ve stared too long, too hard. Ruth suddenly turned and met my gaze.

A smile flickered across her face, and in the next second, she let out a scream and collapsed.

The crowd swarmed in immediately, and before I could react, Ethan tore his hand from mine and rushed to her side.

In full view of everyone, he scooped her up into his arms and sprinted toward the emergency room.

The little boy ran after him, crying loudly:

“Dad, I don’t want Mom to get hurt!”

Only after the doctor examined her and reported that it was just a mild sprain did Ethan finally breathe easily.

After realizing what he had done, Ethan finally seemed to remember that I was still standing beside him.

He looked uncomfortable, scratching the back of his neck, and stammered an explanation:

“I—I did it out of instinct. I wasn’t thinking clearly... I didn’t know it would be her.”

I gave a cold laugh and stared straight at him.

“Then why did that little boy call you ‘Dad’?”

Before Ethan could open his mouth, Ruth quickly stepped in. Her voice trembled, eyes misted with tears.

“My Henry has never had a father figure in his life. He’s always craved a father’s love. When someone shows me a little kindness, he mistakenly calls them dad… I’m sorry, sister, I didn’t mean to upset you. If you’re angry, just hit me—hit me instead of blaming my Henry.”

She reached out and grabbed my hand, trying to guide it toward her face as if inviting a slap.

But before I could react, Ethan shoved me hard, and I fell to the ground.

“Stop it, Samantha!” he shouted. “She’s your sister! Why are you being so cruel to her? And why take it out on a child? Henry’s still young—he doesn’t know any better. But you? You should!”

I looked up at Henry, now hiding timidly behind Ethan. Seeing him shield that child like a father protecting his own, my chest tightened with pain.

I didn’t say another word. I simply stood up and walked away.

Ethan didn’t return until late that night.

He entered quietly, a guilty look on his face, and pulled me into his arms.

“Samantha, I’m sorry about earlier. I overreacted. Ruth… she’s had such a hard life. Her mother passed away, and her father doesn’t acknowledge her. She’s all alone, a widow with a child. I only helped her because she’s your sister.”

He buried his face on my shoulder, kissing my forehead in an attempt to win me back.

“Don’t be mad at me, okay? I know I was wrong. Please forgive me.”

I turned my head, avoiding his kiss, and said coldly,

“Tomorrow is Grace’s memorial. I have to prepare her offerings. I don’t have the energy to argue with you.”

His expression stiffened, as if something had just occurred to him. After a moment, he said awkwardly,

“About that… I might not be able to come with you. There’s a shareholders’ meeting at the company—very important. I’m doing this for you and the baby, to give you both a better life. I’m sure Grace would understand her dad.”

His eyes were filled with fake sincerity, but all I felt was overwhelming sadness.

I knew exactly where he would be tomorrow—not at a shareholders’ meeting, but at Henry’s birthday party.

I read the messages. I knew everything.

The day Grace died had been Henry’s birthday.

For the past three years, Ethan made sure to compensate Ruth for every day he spent with me.

Each year on Henry’s birthday, while pretending to grieve with me, he sent them extravagant gifts:

In the first year, he gave them a villa.

In the second, it was a set of royal jewelry—priceless and rare.

In the third, he handed over a commercial building in the heart of the city, registered under Henry’s name.

This year, he no longer wanted to miss the celebration.

I read his message to Ruth:

“I should’ve waited until the baby’s born to avoid making Samantha suspicious, but when I think of Henry waiting for me with such anticipation… my heart feels like it’s being torn apart.”

“I don’t want to miss any more of his childhood.”

The gift this year?

A notarized property deed.

All of Ethan’s assets and company shares were to be passed on to Henry in the future.

And now, after everything, he had the nerve to look at me with that same fake tenderness.

“If you don’t say anything, I’ll take it as your agreement,” he said softly.

“Wife, I know you’re the most understanding person. When I find time, I’ll go visit Grace too.”

“I’m her father—how could I ever bear to see her suffer?”

I turned away, blinking back the tears threatening to fall.

That night, I called my lawyer and contacted the hospital.

I couldn’t carry this child any longer.

I believed, deep down, the baby would understand.

At dawn, Ethan got up and left, completely unaware of what I was about to do.

I took a taxi straight to the hospital. My pregnancy was already advanced, so I had no choice but to undergo induced labor.

The anesthesia was injected into my veins, yet I could still feel the cold metal forceps twisting and tugging inside my body.

Staring blankly at the harsh operating light above me, I tried to shut off my emotions—tried to go numb.

Still, tears continued to stream down my cheeks.

I couldn’t stop remembering how thrilled I had been when I first found out I was pregnant.

Back then, I truly believed I could leave the pain behind and start over.

I had prayed endlessly for Grace to come back to me in another life, so I could give her twice as much love, protect her twice as fiercely.

Ethan cried, too. He’d knelt beside me with trembling hands and whispered,

“Everything will be okay… We’ll be okay, Samantha. We’ve been through so much—there has to be light at the end.”

We even visited my mother’s grave together. He’d choked up, clinging to my hand as he vowed,

“I swear on my life—I won’t let Samantha get hurt again. This time, I’ll protect her and the baby with everything I’ve got.”

Back then, I believed him completely. I thought he was my second chance, my anchor in the storm.

After the procedure, I lay alone in a hospital bed all night, wrapped in silence and cold sheets.

By noon the next day, Ethan finally messaged me with a flimsy excuse.

“Sorry, baby. I drank too much at a company dinner and passed out at my parents’ place. I’ll come home soon.”

I didn’t respond. Seconds later, another message came in.

“Wife, you didn’t even call to check on me? Aren’t you worried? Are you still upset?”

Then another:

“I brought your favorite chestnut porridge. I queued for a long time to buy it. Can you forgive me now?”

My reply came without thinking:

“But I’m allergic to chestnuts.”

There was a long pause. Then came a flood of apologies.

My heart felt like it was shattering.

How could he forget?

The first time I had an allergic reaction, he stayed by my hospital bedside all night.

We were still young then. He had written down all my allergens in a notebook and memorized them by heart.

But now, he had brought me the one thing I couldn’t eat.

Because someone else loves chestnuts.

Last night, I saw a post on Ruth’s social media. The background was unmistakable—it was my biological father’s house.

In the photo, a man was playing with her son, laughing beside my father like part of the family.

She tried to blur the man’s face, but she couldn’t hide the distinctive watch on his wrist.

I recognized it instantly. It belonged to Ethan.

I also noticed the table was filled with roasted chestnuts.

The pain was so sharp that even my tears dried up.

How ironic that the people I loved the most had quietly turned against me.

I checked myself out of the hospital and left alone, ignoring the barrage of missed calls on my phone.

When I stepped through the front door, Ethan rushed forward and wrapped me in his arms, holding me tightly without a word.

His voice was hoarse, trembling with fake emotion:

“I was going crazy worrying about you. I thought something terrible happened. Samantha, don’t ever do that again. Please, you promised me you'd live well.”

After what felt like hours, he finally let go—just as Ruth appeared from the living room sofa.

The moment our eyes met, she stood up and walked toward me, speaking with gentle accusation:

“Brother-in-law was so worried about you. Please, sister, don’t be so impulsive next time, okay?

I know you’re going through psychological issues, but that doesn’t give you the right to torment the people who care about you.

Brother-in-law is so kind to you. You really need to cherish him.”

Looking at her fake concern and sanctimonious expression, I felt a wave of nausea.

“If you want him, you can have him.”

The moment the words left my mouth, her eyes welled with tears on cue.

“I’m only thinking about what’s best for you. If you don’t appreciate it, then I’ll just leave.”

At that moment, Ethan, who should have looked torn or sorrowful, suddenly dropped the act and turned serious—too serious.