I Carried Her Labor, He Stole My Life

Pain sliced through me like a hot blade, driving me to my knees against the cold hospital wall. I bit down on my fist to muffle my scream, tasting blood as another contraction tore through my body. My vision blurred, sweat plastering my hair to my forehead as I struggled to breathe through the agony.

"Please," I gasped to a passing nurse, reaching out with trembling fingers. "Help me."

Her eyes flickered to mine, a flash of pity quickly replaced by practiced indifference. She stepped around my crumpled form without breaking stride, her shoes squeaking against the polished floor as she disappeared down the corridor.

They'd been told to ignore me. All of them. Nathan's orders.

I dragged myself up using the wall for support, my legs quivering beneath me. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed and flickered, casting everything in a sickly glow. Another wave hit, and I doubled over, a strangled cry escaping my lips. This wasn't my pain—it wasn't my baby—yet I felt every excruciating moment of Olivia's labor.

Through the haze of agony, I staggered toward the frosted glass window of the private birthing suite. My fingers left sweaty prints on the surface as I steadied myself, peering inside.

The scene was surreal in its tranquility. Olivia reclined on the bed, her golden hair fanned out against pristine pillows, her face serene save for an occasional grimace. Beside her, Nathan—my Nathan—held her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles as he whispered encouragements. His face was alight with an expression I'd never seen before: pure, unguarded adoration.

"You're doing beautifully," he murmured, loud enough for me to hear through the glass. "Just a little more."

A memory flashed unbidden—Nathan's gentle smile as he helped me onto the examination table three months ago. "Just a routine check-up," he'd said, kissing my forehead. "I want to make sure you're healthy." The betrayal twisted inside me like a knife, sharper even than the physical pain.

I watched as Olivia took a deep breath, her face barely registering discomfort as she pushed. The doctor beamed encouragingly while a monitor beeped steadily in the background. Everything so clean, so clinical, so controlled.

Meanwhile, I collapsed against the wall outside, my body convulsing as I bore the full brunt of her labor. The neural transmitter beneath my skin burned like a brand, sending signals to my brain that weren't mine to receive. A cruel invention perverted into an instrument of torture.

"Miss? Miss, you can't be here." A security guard approached, his face stern but eyes uncertain as he took in my state.

I couldn't respond, could only curl into myself as another contraction hit. Through the window, I saw Olivia smile weakly, saw the doctor lift something small and wriggling. A cry pierced the air—not mine this time, but a baby's first breath.

Nathan's son. Not ours. Never ours.

The guard's radio crackled. "Mr. Reed says to escort her out," came a tinny voice. "Immediately."

Somehow I found myself half-carried, half-dragged through service