Chapter 3
My mother turned her cold, aristocratic gaze toward me, her brow furrowed in mild annoyance, looking at me almost impatiently.
**“Claire, Sophia is carrying Vincent’s first son,”** she said smoothly, her tone utterly devoid of maternal warmth. **“You know how important an heir is to the Moretti family. Be reasonable.”**
*Be reasonable.*
"Be reasonable?" I choked out, a sob ripping through my throat as another contraction racked my body, folding me in half. "I am his wife! We are having a baby right now! How could you... how could all of you do this to me?"
"You're having a girl, Claire," my father interjected quietly, his voice low, lacking any spine. "The doctors told us hours ago. In our world, an heir—a male heir—changes the entire syndicate structure. Vincent has duties."
I looked up at my husband, the man I had loved fiercely for six years, the man I had given my youth, my loyalty, and my soul to. I reached out again, clutching at his fine sleeve, my fingers trembling violently.
**“Vincent, please,”** I begged, abandoning every shred of my pride. **“I’m your wife. I’m having your baby too.”**
Vincent looked down at my hand gripping his sleeve. His expression didn't soften. Slowly, deliberately, **he pulled his hand away**, breaking my grip finger by finger.
**“You have doctors here, Claire,”** he said coldly, stepping back out of my reach. **“Sophia needs me.”**
Without another word, without a single backward glance, Vincent turned on his heel and walked out of the room. My mother gave me a look that was half-pity, half-disgust, before turning to follow him. My father lingered at the threshold for a fraction of a second, swallowed hard, and then closed the door behind them, leaving me alone in the sterile white box.
"No... no, please!" I screamed into the empty room, but the sound was swallowed by the blare of the heart monitor.
The next three hours were a blur of absolute nightmare. The physical pain of childbirth blended seamlessly with the shattering of my reality. I screamed until my vocal cords bled, pushing against the agony, fighting not for myself, but for the tiny life fighting to come into this cruel, unforgiving world.
At 4:12 AM, a thin, sharp cry pierced the room.
The obstetrician, a tired woman who kept her eyes strictly on her work, wrapped the slippery, squirming bundle in a light pink blanket and gently laid her against my trembling chest.