Seven months into my pregnancy, my husband, Marcus Hale, pushed me down the stairs from the second floor.

He never loved me—of that I’d always had a vague, uneasy sense—but he still rushed me to the hospital with what seemed like panic, pulling every string to bring in the world’s top medical team for an emergency operation.

The baby was born prematurely, but he was alive.

The first thing I did when I woke up was ask for him. My body was wracked with pain, but I forced myself out of bed and made it to the door. Just as I reached for the handle, I heard voices in the room next to mine, separated from me only by a thin hospital wall.

“Mr. Hale,” said a doctor, his tone cautious and low, “the child was born prematurely and just experienced significant trauma. His condition is extremely fragile. A heart transplant now would give him, at best, a ten percent chance of survival.”

“I don’t care how slim the odds are,” Marcus replied, his voice cold and unwavering. “Do whatever it takes to keep him alive. Beth’s baby doesn’t have time to wait.”

Beth was his first love.

“We can’t proceed with a transplant immediately,” the doctor continued. “But if we transfuse some of the baby’s blood, it might temporarily stabilize Blythe.”

“Then take it,” Marcus said without hesitation. “As long as he stays alive, that’s all that matters.”

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. My body froze against the doorframe, and a chill spread through me like a wave of ice. He hadn’t brought me here because he cared. He had only done it to use our child as a means to save someone else’s.

I wiped my tears, slowly and carefully. If this was what Marcus had decided, then I would no longer pretend to be a part of his plan.

Not long after, I overheard another conversation just outside the room.

“Mr. Hale,” a doctor murmured, visibly hesitant, “Mrs. Hale keeps asking about the baby. If we don’t let her see him soon, she might start causing a scene.”

Marcus, still preoccupied with Beth and not even glancing up, responded in a voice that sounded almost bored. “Tell her the baby’s in a sterile incubator and can’t be exposed to outside contact. In a few days, we’ll bring in an abandoned infant and let her think it’s hers.”

The words fell like lead. Each syllable weighed more than the last.

Before the doctor could reply, a nurse walked in and calmly announced that preparations for my hysterectomy were complete and they could begin the operation at any time.

Hysterectomy?

My hand flew instinctively to my abdomen. Confused and alarmed, I couldn’t understand why such a procedure would even be necessary.

Then Marcus’s voice echoed through the corridor, clear and composed in its cruelty. “Schedule Beth’s surgery as soon as possible. She’s already endured enough trying to give me a child. This uterus—Flora’s—is the least I can give her in return.”

The footsteps were coming closer. I staggered back to my room, gripping the railings along the corridor for support.

My incision tore open as I moved too quickly, blood soaking through the gown, tears and sweat mingling on my face.

The pain was unbearable. The betrayal was worse for me.

Everything I’d believed in—every word, every look, every act of kindness—had been nothing but a carefully crafted illusion. To Marcus, I was nothing more than a vessel.

He took away my uterus for Beth and even took the heart of my child to save Beth’s child.

Wiping away my tears, I collapsed onto the bed and pressed the call button to summon the nurse. I couldn’t let Marcus know I had overheard anything.

The nurse came in quietly, placed a bottle of painkillers on the table, and advised me to take a few if the pain became intolerable. She cleaned the incision, bandaged me up again, and left just as silently.

Moments later, Marcus stepped into the room.

His eyes were red. He came to my bedside and gathered me in his arms, his voice low and hoarse, like it hurt him to speak.

“Flora, the baby’s fine,” he murmured in my ear. “But he needs to stay in a sterile environment for observation. Once he’s stronger, I promise I’ll take you to see him.”

He went on without pause. “The doctors found a malignant tumor inside you. I’ve scheduled the surgery for the day after tomorrow. Don’t be afraid—I’ll be right here with you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

I looked at him, no longer searching for truth in his eyes, because I already knew there was none. He was a master of deception.

I said nothing more than a quiet, emotionless “Okay,” and allowed the silence to swallow everything else.

Marcus brushed a tear from my cheek with gentleness, his voice dipped in warmth as he murmured, “Don’t be afraid, Flora. I’ll be right here with you, and our baby—he’s going to be just fine.”

I didn’t reply. In my silence, I watched him perform, that polished tenderness now nothing more than a farce I’d seen too clearly through.

He opened the painkiller bottle with practiced ease, shook out a few pills into his palm, and held out a glass of water.

My gaze lingered on the tablets in his hand. For a brief second, I hesitated, my mind flashing back to the conversation I’d overheard just hours before.

“Just leave them on the table,” I said, forcing a small breath. “I’ll take them once I’ve rested a bit.”

Knowing what I knew now, I couldn’t bring myself to trust anything that passed through his hands—not even a glass of water. His every kindness felt like a calculated attempt to keep me sedated.

His hand remained suspended in the air for a moment before his brow furrowed in concern. “Are you in pain again?” he asked, coaxing me gently. “Take the medicine and get some sleep, Flora.”

Then, without waiting for my answer, he brought the pills to my lips, pressing them there as though my silence had already granted permission.

There was no space left to resist. Swallowing against the tightness in my throat, I took the pills.

The bitterness clung to the back of my tongue, sharp and lingering—but it was nothing compared to the ache that Marcus had etched into me.

I told myself it was fine. After all, that bottle of pills had been brought in by the nurse. I’d watched her place it on the table.

The relief came swiftly. The pain in my abdomen began to dull, but something else crept in along with it—a heavy fog that blurred the edges of my thoughts, drained the strength from my limbs, and before I could fight it, pulled me under.

Somewhere in the distance, I heard Marcus’s voice again—no longer soft, no longer loving.

He ordered, “She’s reacting faster than expected. Don’t wait until the day after tomorrow—take her to the operating room now.”

The light was harsh and white when I opened my eyes again. I was back on the surgical table, my body numb, my mind caught between sleep and waking.

Voices echoed around me. “Mr. Hale, the hysterectomy is complete. We managed to stabilize her condition, though the loss this time was substantial.”

Marcus exhaled heavily, a sound that almost passed for relief. “Good. Beth’s surgery team is ready. Send the uterus over for immediate transfer.”

The next time I came to, I was back in my hospital bed. Marcus was slumped beside me. When he looked up, his expression was one of heartbreak, as if my suffering had torn him apart.

“Flora,” he whispered hoarsely, “you collapsed right after taking the painkillers. The doctors found internal bleeding and had to rush you into emergency surgery. They... they said we may never have another child.”

I should’ve expected it. I had suspected it all along. And yet I hadn’t thought that even the nurse’s pills would be switched, that Marcus had planned every angle, down to my last ounce of trust.

Fighting the tightness in my chest, I turned my head and spoke with what little strength I had left. “Marcus, I just want to see our baby. I won’t touch him, I won’t go near... I just want to see him. Just once, from far away.”

Dipping a cotton swab into a bowl of warm water, he gently touched it to my lips, smiling.

“He’s still very weak,” he said, stroking my hair as if I were a fragile doll. “Once he’s stronger, I’ll take you to see him. I promise.”

To anyone on the outside, Marcus looked every bit the perfect father and devoted husband. And if I hadn’t overheard that conversation, I might have gone on believing the illusion, blissfully ignorant inside his carefully constructed lie.

“There’s an emergency meeting I need to get to,” he said as he glanced at his phone, already pushing himself up from the chair, voice brisk, movements even quicker. “Amara will be here soon to check on you.”

Before I could even respond, he was gone.

I threw off the blanket and, steadying myself against the wall, followed him down the corridor.

When he reached the farthest operating room, he stopped, his posture relaxing just slightly as he began speaking with a doctor. I stayed hidden around the corner.

“Mr. Hale, the uterus has been successfully transplanted into Ms. Wells. Surgery went smoothly,” the doctor reported. “We’ll monitor her condition closely over the next few days.”

Marcus gave a small nod. “Take good care of Beth. And what about Blythe?”

The doctor hesitated. “We’ve drawn the first sample. The child went pale almost immediately, so we didn’t continue.”

My body trembled violently. I pressed both hands over my mouth to muffle the sob building in my throat.

I knew who they were talking about—my baby, my poor, innocent baby.

Just then, a nurse stepped out from a nearby room, carrying a child in her arms—a toddler, maybe just over a year old. His eyes and brows mirrored Marcus’s almost perfectly, while the curve of his nose and chin unmistakably belonged to Beth.

I knew in an instant who this little boy was.

Marcus’s face lit up as soon as he saw the child. He opened his arms with a grin that might have seemed paternal to anyone else. “Blythe came to visit Mommy, huh? Come here, buddy—Daddy’s got you.”

Watching them—his arms outstretched, the child reaching for him, that picture of fatherly affection—I felt a bitter chill climb straight into my chest.

Beth’s son was a treasure held carefully in Marcus’s arms. Meanwhile, my child had been reduced to a vessel, a tool.

I don’t remember how I made it back to my hospital bed. I only recall the way my tears blurred the hallway, the way my legs gave out beneath me again and again.

By evening, Marcus returned looking drained, as though the day had taken everything from him. He collapsed onto the couch in my room and dozed off almost immediately, his guard completely down.

I reached for his phone.

He had hidden the second WhatsApp account—buried it in a private folder. There was just one contact there: Beth.

Her feed was filled with pictures—dozens of them, maybe more. Photos documenting every moment from the beginning of her pregnancy to their son’s first steps.

I scrolled through their chat history, my thumb moving almost mechanically as the truth unfolded before me.

While I’d been pregnant and falling apart in silence, believing Marcus was constantly away on business trips, he had spent most of that time with Beth and their child.

He hadn’t missed a single prenatal checkup with her. He had made her soup himself, joined her at yoga classes for expectant mothers, gone on long evening walks by her side, and even wiped the mud off her hands with his own, despite his notorious aversion to anything unclean.

Meanwhile, I had gone through nearly every appointment alone. Every time I asked, all I got was, “Flora, be good. Work’s been crazy. Let Amara go with you. I’ll check in later.”

He never showed.

My baby still didn’t have a name. But Beth’s son?

He was Blythe Hale—the chosen one, the golden boy, the one Marcus held like the world itself depended on him.

That night, lying in bed with his phone still warm in my hand, I realized something I should have seen long ago.

Love wasn't subtle. Neither was the lack of it.

I barely slept. Morning came far too fast.

Marcus was up early. He didn’t look at me—just muttered something about Amara bringing my breakfast and walked out the door.

There was a time I would’ve thought he was just busy.

Now I knew better. He wasn’t busy with work. He was just with her.

Nearly a month had passed since the surgery, and Marcus’s visits had become increasingly infrequent.

I suspected the child was still being kept somewhere within the hospital, so I used my daily recovery walks as an excuse to quietly search the facility.

Eventually, my efforts were rewarded when I found a sterile room adjacent to Blythe’s, where my child was being kept in isolation.

Through the thick glass, I saw his face for the first time, and the resemblance was unmistakable.

The sight of his frail body—tiny arms riddled with tubes, skin pale beneath the fluorescent lights—filled me with an ache I could hardly bear.

He was crying so violently that sweat glistened on his forehead, his fists clenched tightly as if bracing against a pain too large for such a small frame.

Just then, muffled voices drifted from Blythe’s room next door.

“Marcus,” Beth’s voice was soft and sultry, filled with feigned innocence. “My breasts are swollen, it hurts so much. Can you rub them for me?”

Marcus responded with forced patience, his tone gentle and coaxing as if trying to calm a child. “Beth, don’t be like that. Blythe’s right here. Let’s wait until we get home, alright?”

“But he’s asleep,” she murmured, her voice laced with temptation. “I’m in so much pain. Please, help me. Just for a moment.”

Then I heard the sound of fabric being moved, the shift of bodies, and Beth’s breathy moans as Marcus gave in.

The noises that followed became too crude, too unbearable to listen to, and I fled from the door, stumbling away.

By the time I reached my room, my legs could no longer support me. I collapsed onto the floor and wept until my throat ached and my face was raw.

How could Marcus be so cruel?

While our child—my child—cried in agony, he was in the next room fondling another woman. The woman who had stolen everything from me.

My grief turned to rage. Without thinking, I ran back to the isolation room, tore open the door, and ripped the blood-drawing tubes from my son’s arm.

His scream pierced the silence. The commotion drew Marcus and Beth immediately. Panic flickered across Marcus’s face—not for the child in my arms, but for the potential loss of Blythe’s transplant.

He ordered the bodyguards to take the child from me and slammed me down onto a floor covered in shattered glass.

He shouted, “We can’t wait. Prep the OR. Take the heart now.”

As Marcus stormed toward me, his face twisted in fury.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded. “Who said you could leave your room?”

I looked him in the eyes and said the words I had held inside for far too long. “How could you? You stole my womb, now you want to steal my son’s heart? You are no husband, no father. You are a monster.”

His face remained still, emotionless. His reply was calm and cruel. “What did you think our marriage was for?”

I lay there for three hours, bleeding onto the floor, my limbs torn and motionless, while my child was taken from me again behind closed doors.

When they finally let me go, I was too weak to stand. The muscles in my legs had been so severely cut that I could barely crawl.

“The surgery was successful,” the doctor said, addressing Marcus. “But the medication’s side effects were extreme. The child...”

I dragged myself into the operating room, ignoring the pain, the blood streaming down my legs, the sharp sting of every movement.

My son was dying on the table in front of me, and I couldn’t stop it. I could only watch the light fade from his eyes.

Marcus moved toward me, perhaps to offer comfort, but Beth appeared before he could reach me.

She stumbled into his arms, her voice shrill with urgency. “Something’s wrong with Blythe! He’s seizing. You have to come now!”

Marcus hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering between the child dying in front of him and the one they had deemed worth saving. In the end, he chose. He took Beth’s hand and ran in the opposite direction.

Left alone in that room of death and betrayal, I gathered my son’s body in my arms, pressing his small form to my chest. Then, slowly, painfully, I made my way out of that hospital for the last time.

I arranged his funeral myself. There was no one else to do it.

Once the burial was complete, I returned home and began packing my things.

Marcus called that evening. His voice was calm, composed, as though nothing had happened. “Flora, you’re expected at Blythe’s birthday celebration tomorrow. I’ll be announcing to everyone that you’re his biological mother. Be there.”

I didn’t let him finish. I hung up the phone.

I sold everything he had ever given me—outdated jewelry, all the hollow tokens of a lie. I donated every piece of clothing I had once bought for our child.

Once everything was in order, I picked up my son’s ashes and left for the airport. I was done with this city, with the pain it had buried me under. My son would know freedom.

As I boarded the plane, I opened Twitter. Marcus was trending.

Photos of him flooded the feed—smiling with his ‘family,’ shopping for his ‘wife,’ picking out designer outfits for his ‘son.’

Comments gushed about how lucky his family was, how loving he appeared, how perfect he seemed.

The next afternoon, Marcus sat at the venue for Blythe’s birthday, staring at his phone. My silence grew louder with each passing minute.

Beth, draped in the custom gown Marcus had personally selected, played hostess to the guests, her smile polished and bright. To the unknowing crowd, she was the proud matriarch of the Hale family.

Then chaos struck. His assistant came rushing across the room, visibly shaken. “Mr. Hale—Mrs. Hale is gone. We can’t find her anywhere.”

Before Marcus could respond, the front doors opened. A deliveryman stepped inside, holding up a small box.

“Marcus Hale?” he called out. “I’ve got a package for you.”