Chapter 1

My due date came early, and Don Adrian Moretti's phone kept going straight to voicemail.

I'd been in the delivery room for ten hours before Adrian finally showed up.

He was wearing a black suit, his expression so calm he might as well have been passing through.

"Ava's going into labor too. I need to be with her. A doctor will come to deliver your baby."

Ava was my parents' adopted daughter.

I'd been in the delivery room for ten hours before Adrian finally showed up.

He was wearing a black suit, his expression so calm he might as well have been passing through.

"Ava's going into labor too. I need to be with her. A doctor will come to deliver your baby."

Ava was my parents' adopted daughter.

The pain had almost stolen my voice, but I still managed to grab hold of his fingers.

"Adrian, I'm your wife..."

He pulled his hand free without a flicker of emotion.

"That's exactly why you should know the rules."

"St. Gabriel is a Moretti family hospital. Every eye in this building is on me. If I personally stand guard outside your delivery room, people will say I'm funneling family resources to my own."

I was shaking with hurt, clinging to him, refusing to let him leave.

That was when my parents walked in.

My mother, Catherine Cole, pressed down on my shoulder, her tone weary and impatient.

"Elena, I'm going to be honest with you. The baby Ava's carrying is Adrian's."

"He's been holding back for months just to spare your feelings during the pregnancy. He's been suffering enough."

My father, Charles Cole, stood behind her, his voice low and grave.

"Just this once, be the bigger person. Let him go watch his own child being born."

I stared up at the harsh white light of the surgical lamp. All I could hear was a dull ringing in my ears.

It wasn't until they placed that tiny baby in my arms that I heard my own trembling voice.

"Sweetheart, it's just going to be you and me from now on, okay?"

...

When I came out of the delivery room, there were no flowers. No comfort.

Just the faint glow of my phone screen.

"Elena, something urgent came up at the company. Your father and I won't be coming."

A group of nurses walked past, lowering their voices, but every word still reached me perfectly.

"That Miss Ava on the top floor is really something special. I heard Mrs. Cole had someone send up this enormous bouquet."

"She even asked the nursing station to keep an extra eye on her. Said Ava was the daughter she raised, and she shouldn't have to suffer."

"Not even her biological child, and yet the bond seems stronger than blood."

I slowly closed my eyes.

This hurt worse than the labor.

The hospital rooms were all full.

The head nurse recognized me and made a call to Adrian's assistant. Before long, the call was transferred to Adrian himself.

"Boss, don't worry. I'll make sure your wife gets a private room."

Adrian's voice came through the receiver, stern and cold.

"Follow hospital protocol. She gets whatever she's entitled to."

"There's no reason to give her special treatment and make other patients suffer for it."

I had nearly died giving him this child, and he brushed me aside like an inconvenience.

I lowered my head and nuzzled my daughter's flushed little face, unable to stop the tears.

After a runaround of dead ends, I was temporarily placed on a bed in the hallway.

Before long, Adrian came striding past with several of his men.

My daughter cried out from hunger, her voice thin and weak.

His steps faltered for a moment, but he didn't turn around.

The doctors trailing behind him murmured to each other.

"Boss is probably rushing up to the top floor to see Mrs. Moretti."

"I heard he personally ordered that VIP room held for her."

I was right there, crammed into a narrow, noisy hallway.

So who was this Mrs. Moretti they were talking about?

Was it Ava?

For her, Adrian would actually speak up himself.

Blood seeped through the stitches on my lower abdomen, and sharp waves of pain hit me one after another. I couldn't let myself think anymore.

My daughter's face was red from crying, but I had no milk to give her. All I could do was beg a nurse to help me get a hot meal so my milk would come in.

I waited for a long time.

What finally came was a few slices of dry bread.

The nurse looked embarrassed.

"Don Moretti said every postpartum patient gets the same meal plan. He said you shouldn't expect special treatment."

I took it without a word.

A few minutes later, I scrolled past Ava's social media post.

"Hubby arranged my postpartum meals. I have to finish every bite. I'm definitely going to gain weight."

The photo showed a meal prepared by a nutritionist. Fish, shrimp, and a carefully paired soup.

Her son was sleeping peacefully in an expensive bassinet, his cheeks rosy and full.

My daughter lay in a worn swaddle, her little face already purple from crying.

So their precious rules only applied to me.

If they wanted to make me suffer, fine.

But now my child had to bear the same fate.

I was done with this family.