Chapter 3
The steady beep of machines pulled me from darkness. My eyelids felt impossibly heavy as I forced them open, blinking against harsh fluorescent lights. White ceiling. Antiseptic smell. Hospital.
A doctor stood beside my bed, clipboard in hand, her expression carefully neutral.
"Mrs. Anderson, I'm Dr. Patel. You're at Mount Sinai Hospital."
Memory flooded back—blood on the bathroom floor, Kieran's face transforming from anger to shock, then darkness.
"What happened?" My voice was a rasp.
"You experienced severe hemorrhaging due to complications from your pregnancy," she explained gently. "We had to perform an emergency hysterectomy to save your life."
The words hit me like physical blows. "Pregnancy? Hysterectomy?"
"You were approximately eight weeks pregnant," Dr. Patel confirmed. "I'm sorry, but you won't be able to carry children."
I turned my head, noticing Kieran standing by the window, his back to me. His shoulders were rigid, his reflection in the glass showing a face carved from stone.
"Kieran," I whispered.
He turned slowly, his eyes meeting mine with no warmth. "The doctor says you're stable now."
Dr. Patel cleared her throat. "Mr. Anderson, perhaps you'd like to sit with your wife while I check her vitals?"
"She's fine," he said dismissively. "You said so yourself."
"Mr. Anderson—"
"My wife's body was simply too fragile to carry a child," he interrupted, his voice clinical. "The doctor said it was inevitable."
I flinched at his words—twisting the medical diagnosis into something that absolved him of all responsibility.
"The board meeting starts in an hour," he continued, checking his watch. "I need to go."
"Kieran, please," I begged, tears spilling down my cheeks.
He looked at me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes before disappearing completely. "I'll send someone to collect you when you're discharged."
And then he was gone, leaving me alone with the devastating knowledge that I would never have children—and that my husband had just abandoned me in my darkest hour.
---
The penthouse felt like a mausoleum when I returned. Every surface gleamed with cold perfection, untouched by human warmth. I moved through rooms that no longer felt like mine, carrying my small hospital bag to the guest bedroom.
"This is where I'll stay," I told Mrs. Higgins, who had been instructed to help me settle in.
"Mrs. Anderson, the master bedroom—"
"Is no longer my room," I finished firmly.
That night, I locked the guest room door, sliding a chair against it for good measure. In the darkness, I curled around my empty womb, grieving for the child I never knew I had—and for the woman I used to be.
The next morning, I found my old medical textbooks in a box marked "Charity"—books Kieran had intended to discard when I abandoned my degree to become his wife. I pulled them out, dust coating my fingers as I opened the first page.
Medicine had been my passion once. Before Kieran. Before everything.
I traced the diagrams of human anatomy, remembering the future I'd planned. The future I'd given up.
My fingers trembled as I reached for my phone—not the one Kieran monitored, but a new one I'd purchased with cash from selling an old necklace. I'd created a new email address, untraceable.
"London Medical Program Transfers," I typed into the encrypted browser.
The screen filled with possibilities—a world away from this gilded prison.
---
The doorbell rang three days later. I opened it to find Daphne standing there, her perfect smile faltering slightly at the sight of me.
"Lylah," she cooed, pushing past me into the penthouse. "Kieran asked me to check on you."
He hadn't mentioned any such thing.
"How... thoughtful," I managed.
She wandered through the living room, trailing her fingers along Kieran's favorite armchair. "He's been so worried about you."
"I'm sure he has."
Daphne laughed lightly, settling onto the sofa. "Actually, he's quite relieved about the whole... situation."
I stiffened. "What situation?"
"The baby, of course." She examined her manicure. "Or rather, the lack thereof."
My hands clenched into fists. "Get out."
"Oh, don't be dramatic." She reached into her designer handbag and pulled out a glossy brochure. "I brought you something that might help."
She placed it on the coffee table between us. "Divorce Attorney Specializing in High-Asset Cases," it read in elegant script.
"Kieran thinks it's time you moved on," she said casually. "Before things get... messy."
As she sauntered toward the door, she paused, looking back over her shoulder. "He says you were always a bad investment. But now at least there won't be any... entanglements."
After she left, I stared at the brochure until the words blurred. Then I picked up my burner phone and began typing a new email—not to a divorce lawyer, but to the London Medical Program.
Subject: Application for Transfer.
I had already lost my child and my future. I wouldn't lose my freedom too.
You may also like
