They took my uterus. Seven months pregnant. My husband kicked me so hard the placenta detached. I hemorrhaged on the ice. His reason? Someone told him I slapped his first love across the face. My brother Marcus—the one person I had left in this world—found out and just stared at me with pure disgust. "You deserved it. If you ever lay a hand on Olivia again, I'll make you regret it." The hedge fund they ran together collapsed. They hung the CEO title on me and shoved me into federal prison. Three years. Three years of hell inside those walls. When I got out, I was done. No more hope. No more clinging to the shredded remains of love and family that had bled me dry. But they had regrets. Oh, they had plenty of those. *** Joseph Cross kicked me. Hard. My body hit the frozen driveway and I went down. Wind carved into my face like a blade. My abdomen clenched—a deep, ripping contraction that stole my breath. Something hot gushed between my legs. I couldn't tell if it was blood or amniotic fluid. "Joseph—my stomach—something's wrong—I think I'm bleeding!" I reached for him. He stood right there beside me. He looked down at me from above. His mouth curled into a cold smile, like I was putting on some pathetic show. "Oh, now you know what pain feels like? Did Olivia feel pain last year? When you made her miscarry—did she feel pain?" "She never said a word against you. That's because she's a good person. But you?" "It's her birthday. You threw that bastard child in her face, and then you had the audacity to hit her." His eyes were ice. No mercy. None. "I didn't—just let me explain!" I scrambled to stand. The ice was too slick. I slammed back down. I crawled forward on the frozen ground, desperate, reaching for the hem of his coat. "Joseph, I'm not faking—my stomach really hurts—" My fingers never touched him. Olivia, silent until now, stumbled back half a step. She pressed a hand to her temple and let out a delicate gasp. "Joseph… I feel so dizzy…" His face changed instantly. He stared at my outstretched hand, smeared with dirty slush, like it was something foul. He didn't pull me up. He kicked me away. The sole of his shoe met my body with disgust. "Get away from her. Don't touch her with your filthy hands." On that frozen driveway, the kick became a death sentence. My body slid backward. A dull, sickening crack. My lower back and belly slammed into the concrete snow barrier at the edge of the drive. Something tore deep inside me. A ripping, obliterating pain that didn't stop. I couldn't breathe. The heat between my legs spread faster, staining the snow beneath me red. I clawed at the ice. My blood-smeared hand reached for him. "Joseph—please—the baby—get me to a hospital—save the baby—" He stood there, Olivia cradled in his arms, staring down at me curled on the ground. No pity in his eyes. Just revulsion. "Vanessa. Save the theatrics. You think a little fake blood and a sob story will make me forget what you did to Olivia?" He snorted. "Women like you—raised in trailer parks—you'll use any trick to get sympathy." "I'm not faking—it's real—" My body shook uncontrollably. My vision blurred. Through the haze, Olivia nestled against Joseph's chest. Her voice was soft, sweet. "Joseph, forget about her. I really do think I have a concussion…" He didn't hesitate. He stripped off his coat and wrapped it around her. Scooped her into his arms. His final words landed on me like a door slamming shut. "Lie there and think about what you've done. Don't expect me to fall for this." He strode toward the parking lot. He didn't look back. Not once. Snow drifted into my eyes. The cold seeped into my chest, reached my heart. I couldn't hold on anymore. Everything went black.
I woke up in a hospital room. Dim light. Dead quiet. No one there. My head was thick, slow. It took a long time to piece together what happened. My hand moved to my stomach. Trembling. Seven months. Round and full. Flat. Completely flat. The baby was gone. A white noise filled my skull. Blank. Empty. My chest caved in. Like a sledgehammer had crushed it. Yesterday, the baby had been kicking. Rolling around inside me, full of life. I'd been imagining his face. And now— Seven months. That was all we got. Hatred surged up from my chest—wild, boundless. I wanted to kill Joseph. I wanted to do it right then. I dragged myself off the bed. Before I could stand, I crashed to the floor. The thud echoed through the room. The bathroom door banged open. An orderly rushed out. "Mrs. Anderson! Are you okay? I'm so sorry—I was just in the restroom." "You just had a hysterectomy. You cannot be out of bed." Everything stopped. "What did you say?" She helped me back onto the mattress. "You came in with a placental abruption. Massive hemorrhage. They couldn't save the uterus. You absolutely cannot get up for the next two days. Let me handle everything—your husband already prepaid all the expenses." Like being held underwater in freezing darkness. My blood turned to ice. I came back to myself and tore free of the orderly's grip. I was going to find Joseph. I was going to end him. She hit the emergency call button. Shouted for doctors. A crowd rushed in. A moment later, sedatives slid into my veins. I sank into unconsciousness. The dreams coiled around me, suffocating. Memories. Marcus and me when we were kids, just the two of us against the world. Him carrying me on his back, our small lonely shadows moving through trailer parks and cheap rentals. The sweet moments after I married Joseph. The way he used to take care of me. And then Olivia appeared. Everything shattered. When I woke again, it was the next morning. I opened my eyes. Marcus was there. Sitting motionless beside my bed. His expression was flat. Distant.
Marcus is three years older than me. We're orphans. The real kind. Our father died of a fentanyl overdose in a truck stop restroom when I was five. Our mother vanished. Never saw her again. We survived on foster homes and state checks. The kind of hardship only we understood. Dumpster diving behind convenience stores for just-expired food was normal. Begging quarters for wiping windshields at gas stations was normal. Eventually we clawed our way into college on scholarships and loans. Started working. I thought we'd finally made it. Then his senior year—end-stage renal disease. He needed a transplant. He wanted to give up. Couldn't afford it. I got tested in secret. A perfect match. I emptied the last twelve thousand dollars from the trust our grandmother left us. Donated my kidney. I made sure the hospital signed strict privacy agreements. The social workers, the surgeons—nobody told him. Same recovery wing. He never knew. I didn't want him carrying that weight. He'd suffered enough his whole life. I wasn't going to let him spend the rest of it drowning in guilt toward me. He got angry later—furious I'd touched the trust money. Disappointed I'd vanished for over ten days during his surgery. I just smiled and brushed it off. Now, seeing him healthy, almost like any normal person—I was genuinely happy for him. To me, Marcus was my only family. The one who raised me. My only blood in this world. When I saw him, my nose stung. Every buried hurt surged up my throat. "Marcus—" My voice broke. He slapped me. Hard. Across the face. The blow choked every word of grief right out of me. I stared at him. Too shocked to see his expression clearly anymore. "Vanessa. I am so goddamn disappointed in you. How dare you?" "Last year you pushed Olivia down the stairs. Deliberately. She lost the baby. She didn't press charges because of me." "But you just keep going. You crashed her birthday party. Made a scene. Gave her a concussion. When did you become this vicious?" "She forgave you. Again. But after you're discharged, you will get on your knees and apologize to her." I kept staring, silent. He screamed: "I'm talking to you! Do you hear me?!" "I spoiled you. That's the problem. I made you forget your place." I looked at this man—face red, features twisted, unrecognizable. Was this really Marcus? Over twenty years of memories flooded through me. When we were kids, he did spoil me. Protected me. But after he fell for Olivia—got tangled up in her emotional games with Joseph—he became volatile. Erratic. He was jealous of Olivia's boarding school history with Joseph. But he couldn't let go of the scraps of warmth and flirtation she threw his way. I knew him. A childhood starved of love made him desperate and insecure. The missing kidney carved a deep hollow of shame inside him. And Olivia? Upper East Side heiress. Trust fund. European degree. Beautiful. He looked at her with awe. He'd comply with anything she asked, even if it targeted me. And he wouldn't care. Back then it was all small stuff. At first I tried to talk to him. Eventually I understood. He was a grown man. He knew right from wrong. The way he acted was a choice. His choice. It hurt. But I genuinely hoped he'd find his happiness. Now here he was. Storming into an ICU room, basing everything on one unsupported accusation, demanding answers from me—me, who had just lost her baby and her uterus. I didn't know this man. He wasn't the Marcus who once stayed up all night, terrified, because my fever hit 104. Something thick and metallic rose in my throat. I gagged. Blood spilled past my lips. Marcus froze. A flicker of pain crossed his eyes. But he gritted his teeth. He didn't come to me. He turned to leave. At the door, he stopped. His back to me. His voice was ice. "Vanessa. Everything happening to you—you brought it on yourself. And if you ever go after Olivia again, I won't forgive you either." The door slammed. I stared at it for a long time. Wiped the corner of my mouth with my hand. Blood smeared my fingertips. Tears blurred it, spreading the red in circles. Tilting my head back, I tried to force the tears down. It didn't work. I really regretted it. Regretted scheming my way into marrying Joseph. Regretted stepping into this chaos. Olivia wavered between my husband and my brother. Stringing along Marcus—sweet, obedient Marcus who gave her everything—while refusing to let go of her first love, Joseph. So why? Why were my baby and I the casualties of their game?
The moment I saw Joseph, I knew I was finished. Completely, utterly lost. Fall of senior year. Sunlight streaming through gothic stained glass at an Ivy League alumni mixer. I spotted him beside the lectern. Chiseled profile. A tiny beauty mark at the corner of his eye. It hit me like a freight train. He was aloof. Privileged. Gorgeous. Gliding through campus on family trust money and elite venture capital internships. To catch up to him, I pulled all-nighters on full scholarship, shadowed professors shamelessly for recommendation letters. I followed him to the Ivy League. Followed him to Wall Street. His shadow. Always hovering just inside his sightline. I loved him like a secret I was terrified to speak aloud, afraid my love would inconvenience him. And then one night—after a failed acquisition, drunk—he finally looked down. He saw me. The shadow. After that day, I had a second person in this world I'd gladly die for. I knew someone else occupied his heart. I walked into the fire anyway, fully aware I'd burn alive. From dating to a Hamptons wedding—one year. After marriage, he was tender. Attentive. No matter how busy, he never neglected me. When I got sick, he stayed by my side. Every trip to Silicon Valley or London, he brought back carefully chosen gifts. We were happy then. No question. But all of it ended the moment Olivia came back from Paris. The first time he abandoned me at a highway rest stop in Jersey was to pick Olivia up at JFK. The first time he called me trailer trash with no breeding was for Olivia. Later, he, Olivia, and Marcus launched a hedge fund. I was the CEO on paper. I held zero equity. I had my suspicions. But I didn't want to believe people could be that ugly. Of the three of them, one was my husband. The other was my own brother. When I got pregnant, I ran to Joseph with the blood test, trembling with excitement. There was no joy in his face. Just a tight frown. Disgust. He never once came to a prenatal appointment. Back then I didn't understand why pregnancy made everything worse. I should have known. If I had understood sooner— If I had walked away then— My baby might have made it into this world alive. But "if" doesn't exist. Joseph arrived. Olivia beside him, dressed like a magazine spread. I was pale, lips gray, the stark contrast laid bare. I saw them enter, one after the other, and closed my eyes. I didn't want to deal with this. "You're awake." Joseph's voice. Flat. No warmth. His expression was open contempt. "Good timing. Olivia came to see you. Apologize to her. Now." "She's a kind person. You've hurt her again and again, and instead of blaming you, she offered to visit. But I won't let this keep going. You will apologize today." I almost laughed through the tears gathering in my eyes. I'm vicious? I'm cruel? This time last year. Olivia's birthday party. Joseph and Marcus had planned it for her at the Hamptons estate. Midway through, I went upstairs to the bathroom. She cornered me on the staircase. I hadn't even figured out what was happening before she cried out and tumbled down. She wailed about stomach pain. Blood seeped between her legs. She passed out. On the drive to the hospital, Marcus was shaking. Joseph held her in the back seat, calling her name, urgent, desperate. Then came the story. Two months pregnant. Miscarriage. Whose child was it? Marcus's? Joseph's? I didn't know. I never understood the tangled mess between them. Afterward, they dumped the entire blame for Olivia's miscarriage on me. I spent a full year living like a convicted sinner in front of them. No matter what I said, they believed I was lying. And then—just days ago, at her most recent birthday party—she pulled the same stunt. Accused me of slapping her. They believed her. Again. Without hesitation.
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