in white hospital blankets, I cried so hard I couldn’t see them clearly for a full minute.
The suite the hospital gave me was larger than some apartments I had seen from the bench.
There was a private sitting area, polished wood cabinets, soft lighting, and a wall of windows that showed the city turning gold with late afternoon.
At my request, the nurses removed the bouquets and cards that would have blown apart the careful fiction in one glance.
Only one card had been missed, tucked halfway behind a pitcher on the sideboard, but I was too tired to get up and hide it myself.
Adrian had stepped out to finish paperwork with pediatrics and bring back the charger I had forgotten in the car.
Nurse Marisol checked my vitals, adjusted my blankets, and promised no visitors without my approval.
I remember nodding, one hand resting on Luna’s bassinet, the other drifting toward Leo’s tiny fist.
Then the door burst open.
Victoria Sterling entered as if she owned the hospital.
She was wearing cream fur draped over her shoulders, diamond studs in her ears, and a perfume so heavy it sat in the room like smoke.
Her eyes traveled over the suite with open disgust.
She took in the private room, the linen curtains, the upholstered chair, the tray of untouched broth, and then she looked at me the way people look at a stain they believe somebody else should clean up.
“A VIP recovery suite?” she said.
“How generous of you to spend my son’s money while he’s downstairs doing real work.”
I was too tired to even process the insult at first.
“You need to leave.”
She ignored me.
She walked to the bed and kicked the lower rail hard enough to send pain tearing through my abdomen.
I gasped and instinctively folded over my incision.
“You really are shameless,” she said.
“Silk pillows, private nursing, room service.
My son marries one delicate little thing and suddenly he’s funding a princess.”
I reached for the call button on my rail, but she was faster.
From the inside pocket of her coat, she pulled out a thick packet of papers folded in thirds.
She dropped them onto my tray table with a theatrical flick of her wrist.
The top page had enough legal language to make a layperson feel intimidated.
It took me only a second to recognize the fraud.
“Sign this,” she said.
“It transfers parental rights for the boy.
Karen cannot have children.
She deserves a son, and this family needs an heir.
You can keep the girl.
One baby is manageable.
Two will ruin you.”
For a moment, the room went so still I could hear the soft electronic beeping of my own heart monitor.
I looked from the papers to her face, waiting for some crack that would reveal it was a grotesque joke.
There was none.
“These are my children,” I said.
She gave a sharp, disgusted laugh.
“And this is exactly why I came myself.
Adrian is too sentimental, and you’ve always mistaken his kindness for authority.
Karen has been preparing a nursery for weeks.
The family line needs a boy, and frankly, she’ll do a better job.
She knows how to raise children properly.”
My mouth went dry.
“Karen is here?”
