Chapter 1 Betrayal in the Delivery Room

Chapter 1: Betrayal in the Delivery Room

Blood. My own blood, pooling beneath me on the pristine white sheets of the delivery room. I'd always imagined childbirth would be a moment of triumph, not execution. But then again, I'd always imagined my husband would be holding my hand, not signing a check.

"Ava Morton," my mother-in-law Miranda's voice cut through the haze of my pain with surgical precision. "The child stays with us. You take the money and disappear."

I could barely focus on her face through the sweat and tears clouding my vision, but her diamond necklace caught the fluorescent lights, glinting like a knife. How fitting that even her jewelry seemed to threaten me.

Ernest stood beside her in his impeccable charcoal suit, not a wrinkle in sight despite having supposedly rushed from a board meeting to witness the birth of his "heir." His fountain pen scratched against paper as he filled out the amount.

"One million, as agreed," he said, not even looking at me. "Plus a ten percent bonus for your... discretion."

Discretion. What a beautiful word for silence. For erasure.

The nurse beside me cooed at the newborn, cleaning him with practiced efficiency. My son—no, their son now, according to the agreement I'd never actually signed. The pain between my legs was excruciating, but nothing compared to the hollow ache spreading through my chest.

"Would you like to hold him before—" the nurse began, but Miranda cut her off.

"That won't be necessary. Mrs. Morton understands her role here is complete."

My role. Nine months of morning sickness, swollen ankles, and back pain. Nine months of being hidden away in the Cantrell family's mountain estate. Nine months of being Ernest's dirty secret while he played the grieving husband to the world, lamenting my "extended hospitalization for a rare condition."

I laughed then, a broken sound that startled everyone in the room. With strength I didn't know I still possessed, I reached out and grabbed the surgical scissors from the nurse's tray.

"Mrs. Morton!" the doctor exclaimed, but he was too late.

I slashed through the umbilical cord myself, watching as droplets of blood sprayed across the room, some landing perfectly on the framed wedding photo Ernest had cruelly placed in my line of sight—a reminder of what I was losing.

"Remember," I hissed through clenched teeth, "you begged me to have this child. When all your mistresses couldn't deliver an heir, you came crawling back to your barren wife."

Ernest's face contorted with rage. He lunged forward, his manicured fingers wrapping around my throat. "You ungrateful bitch," he snarled, his spittle landing on my cheek. "After everything we've given you—"

"Given me?" I choked out. "You've taken everything."

With my free hand, I reached into the bodice of my hospital gown and pulled out a sealed document, waving it weakly in his face. His grip loosened as confusion replaced anger.

"What is this?"

"Insurance," I whispered, my voice raw. "A frozen egg agreement. Want a real heir, Ernest? Then you'll need to kneel."

He snatched the paper, eyes scanning the contents. His face paled as he reached the signing date—exactly one year before our wedding.

"Impossible," he breathed.

Miranda grabbed the document from him. "What is this nonsense?"

I smiled through cracked lips. "I knew what you wanted from the beginning, Miranda. A broodmare. But I was never as stupid as you thought."

The room fell silent except for the newborn's cries and the beeping of my monitors. I closed my eyes, strength fading, but not before I caught the look of pure terror crossing both their faces.

They thought they were buying a womb. They never realized they were dealing with a mind.

---

Three years later, I sat with one leg crossed over the other at the annual Cantrell charity gala, watching the family that had discarded me now approach with desperate eyes. The grand ballroom of the Cantrell estate—once my prison, now my stage—buzzed with the whispers of the elite as they watched the unfolding drama.

Miranda reached me first, her perfect composure cracked for the first time since I'd known her. Behind her, Ernest looked haggard, his once immaculate appearance now rumpled and aged.

"Ava," she said, attempting to infuse warmth into her voice. "Thank you for coming."

I took a slow sip of champagne. "When the Cantrell family sends a private jet, it's hard to refuse. Though I was surprised by the invitation."

Ernest stepped forward. "It's about Thomas."

Thomas. The name they'd given my son—named after Ernest's father, of course. The child I'd never been allowed to hold.

"What about him?" I kept my voice neutral, though my heart raced.

"He's sick," Miranda whispered, actual tears forming in her eyes. "Acute lymphoblastic leukemia. He needs a bone marrow transplant."

I raised an eyebrow. "And?"

Ernest's jaw tightened. "And none of us are matches. Not me, not Mother, not any of the extended family."

"How unfortunate," I replied, examining my manicure.

Miranda actually fell to her knees then, her designer dress pooling around her. The crowd gasped—the Cantrell matriarch on her knees was unprecedented.

"Please, Ava. You're his mother. You're our only hope."

I uncrossed my legs and leaned forward. "Am I his mother? That's not what the paperwork says. That's not what you told him, is it?"

Ernest stepped closer, desperation evident in every line of his face. "Whatever you want—money, properties, shares in the company—it's yours. Just help our son."

I stood slowly, setting down my champagne flute. "Your son? Interesting choice of words, Ernest."

With deliberate movements, I walked to the small stage where the charity auction items were being displayed. Conversations died as I picked up the microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for interrupting this lovely event, but I believe we have a medical emergency that takes precedence over charity tonight."

I gestured to a member of my security team, who stepped forward with a tablet. "Ernest, you want my bone marrow for your son. But before I offer such an intimate part of myself, I have a question."

The room was silent now, hundreds of eyes fixed on us.

"My bone marrow?" I continued, my voice echoing through the speakers. "First, ask your precious son—does he even have the ability to reproduce?"

Ernest lunged for me, but my security blocked him. Miranda stood frozen in horror.

"What are you doing?" Ernest hissed.

I smiled coldly. "Revealing the truth."

With a nod to my team, the large projection screen behind me lit up with a genetic report. Bold red letters displayed: **0% GENETIC MATCH between Ernest Cantrell and Thomas Cantrell**.

The ballroom erupted in gasps and murmurs.

"It seems," I announced to the stunned crowd, "that the Cantrell heir isn't a Cantrell after all."

Ernest's face contorted with fury. "You switched the samples! This is a trick!"

I laughed, the sound echoing through the speakers. "Oh, Ernest. This isn't my trick—it's yours. Or should I say, your family's?"

I stepped down from the stage, walking slowly toward the exit. As I passed Miranda, still frozen in shock, I whispered just loud enough for those nearby to hear:

"You should have let me hold my baby."