The night before i gave birth, i overheard my husband bribe the doctor: "infect her and let her die in delivery. i'll pay you $500,000!" so he could be with his 5-month-pregnant mistress. i pretended to sleep and acted. next day, karma hit him...!

At 5:15 AM, the hallway outside Suite 402 began to wake up. The soft squeak of rubber soles against polished linoleum floorboards announced the morning shift change.

I sat motionless in the dark, my feet resting on the cold floor tiles, wearing my own cotton robe instead of the standard hospital gown. In my pocket, I held a small, sharp stainless-steel nail file I had retrieved from my vanity kit. It wasn't much of a weapon, but if anyone attempted to insert an unauthorized IV line before my brother arrived, I was prepared to drive it into their neck.

The heavy door to the suite swung open without a knock.

Flynn walked in, carrying two large paper cups from the artisan coffee shop across the street. He looked immaculate—his hair freshly styled, his white shirt crisp and unwrinkled, wearing the image of a nervous, devoted father-to-be down to the slightest detail.

"Mabel?" he said, stopping in his tracks when he saw me sitting fully upright near the window. "Sweetheart, why are you out of bed? You need to save your strength for the delivery."

He set the coffee cups on the table and rushed over to me, reaching out his hands to wrap around my shoulders.

I involuntarily recoiled, stepping back until my lower back hit the windowsill.

Flynn’s eyes narrowed slightly, a microscopic flicker of suspicion flashing across his features before he instantly smoothed it over with a warm, concerned smile. "What’s wrong, darling? Did you have a nightmare?"

"I couldn't sleep, Flynn," I said, keeping my voice soft, frail, and breathy—the voice of an exhausted, high-risk pregnant woman. "My stomach hurts. The baby has been kicking nonstop since three in the morning."

Flynn’s smile widened, his eyes dropping to my swollen abdomen with a look of terrifying possessiveness. "That just means our little boy is ready to meet the world. Dr. Vance said he’ll be here at six-thirty to start the pre-op prep."

He reached out, grabbed one of the coffee cups, and held it out to me. "Here. I got you that chamomile blend you like. Drink it while it’s hot."

I looked down at the paper cup. The steam rising from the plastic lid carried a faint, bitter almond undertone—the unmistakable smell of liquid sedatives mixed with concentrated floral tea.

"My throat is dry, Flynn," I said, looking up into his eyes with absolute innocence. "Could you get me a glass of ice water from the lounge kitchen first?"

"Of course, sweetheart," Flynn said smoothly, setting the coffee cup down on the nightstand right beside my hidden phone. "Anything you need."

The moment he turned his back and stepped out of the bedroom into the lounge, I grabbed the coffee cup, dumped its entire contents into the soil of a large potted ficus plant near the window, wiped the plastic rim clean with my sleeve, and set the empty cup back on the table just as Flynn re-entered holding a glass of water.

"Here you go, Mabel," he said, handing me the water.

I took a tiny sip, letting the cold liquid rest on my tongue without swallowing, then set the glass down. "Thank you, Flynn. You’ve been so good to me through this whole pregnancy."

Flynn leaned against the bedframe, folding his arms across his chest, looking down at me with a soft, patronizing expression. "I promised your grandfather I would take care of you, Mabel. And I always fulfill my promises."

"What about Selina?" I asked quietly.

The air in the room instantly crystallized.

Flynn froze. The artificial warmth in his brown eyes vanished so quickly it felt as though a mask had been ripped from his skull, revealing the cold, reptilian reality beneath. His arms slowly unfolded, hanging loosely at his sides.

"What did you just say?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave, losing every trace of affection.

"Selina," I repeated, standing up straight, pulling my robe tightly around my waist. "Your interior designer. The woman living in Apartment 4B on Elm Street. The woman who is currently twenty weeks pregnant with your child."

Flynn stared at me for three long, agonizing seconds. Then, a slow, dark smirk began to curl the corner of his lips. He didn't deny it. He didn't throw a fit or panic. He simply took one slow step toward me, his eyes locked onto mine like a hunter observing a cornered animal.

"You weren't asleep last night, were you?" he murmured softly.

"No," I replied, my voice steady and firm. "I wasn't."

Flynn let out a low, breathless laugh, shaking his head as if genuinely amused by my survival instincts. "You always were smarter than your brother gave you credit for, Mabel. But it doesn't change anything. Look at where you are. You’re in my hospital, under my doctor’s care, hours away from a major surgical procedure. Who are they going to believe? An exhausted, hormonal heiress experiencing pregnancy-induced psychosis, or her grieving, respectable husband?"

He raised his hand, pointing a finger at my face. "You have no proof, Mabel. You have nothing."