My mother was the textbook definition of a hopelessly romantic heiress in a high-society melodrama. She was systematically ruined by my gold-digging, toxic excuse of a father, suffering seven consecutive miscarriages, all while genuinely believing her own body was simply too weak. As for me? I was the ultimate unlucky soul who failed to be born seven times in a row. By my eighth attempt at reincarnation, even the Lord of the Underworld lost his patience. He had the Keeper of Souls personally escort me to the mortal realm to ensure my safe arrival. And right before we left, they gifted my mother a maxed-out, supernatural ability to understand “baby talk”—the power to hear my silent infant thoughts. I thought this time, I’d finally get to kick back, relax, and live the pampered life of a princess in a trillion-dollar family dynasty. But the exact second I was born, I opened my eyes to see my toxic father, Laurence, cradling a strange baby boy. He walked right up to my mother’s hospital bed. “Sweetheart, you worked so hard,” he crooned. “Look at our son. The future heir to the Caldwell empire.” Meanwhile, I was stuffed into a hazardous medical waste bin, about to be wheeled away and incinerated. Desperate, I began screaming at the top of my lungs inside my dark, plastic prison: [You hopelessly romantic fool of a mother! That baby belongs to his secret first love, the girl of his dreams! Your real daughter is right here! Help me, Mom!] My mother, who had been gazing at him with teary, infatuated eyes, suddenly froze. … “Victoria, what’s wrong?” Laurence’s voice dripped with practiced worry. “Are you too exhausted?” My mother, Victoria Caldwell, stared at him with eyes wide with shock and confusion. Laurence cradled the boy, carefully leaning closer to the bed. “Look at his eyes, his nose. He looks just like you.” I kicked my tiny, fragile legs inside the sealed bin, which smelled suffocatingly of bleach and blood. But as a newborn, my muscles were like mush, and my frantic struggles only translated to the faintest rustle. [Mom! Don’t look at him! Look at the red waste container! I’m in here!] My mother’s face went entirely bloodless. She could actually hear me! The supernatural gift from the Keeper of Souls worked. My mother’s body shuddered violently. [Mom, that boy isn’t yours! He belongs to Sasha, his first love! If you check behind his left ear, he’s got the crescent-moon birthmark that runs in her family!] My mother’s gaze snapped to the boy. Seeing her stare at the child, the warmth in Laurence’s eyes deepened. He leaned down, gently stroking the infant’s cheek. “Victoria, you always wanted our own flesh and blood. Now that we have a son, my place in the Caldwell family is finally secure.” My mother’s fingers trembled as she parted the baby’s fine hair behind his left ear. There it was. A crescent-moon birthmark. During her first pregnancy, Sasha Mercer had visited their villa as Laurence’s “old friend.” She had accidentally exposed the exact same mark. At the time, Victoria had smiled and said, “What a unique birthmark, Sasha.” Sasha had blushed, replying, “It’s a family trait. All of us Mercers have it.” Now, that very trait was stamped on this supposed “Caldwell heir.” My mother’s breathing fractured. [Yes! See? Now do you believe I’m your real daughter? The nurse is about to throw me out like medical trash! Help!] I twisted my body inside the bin with everything I had. But because I had been deprived of oxygen from the moment of my birth, I couldn’t even muster a cry. Only a faint, pathetic whimper escaped my throat. She turned her head with sudden, terrifying speed. “Stop right there!” my mother commanded, her voice slicing through the room. The head nurse, who was slipping toward the exit, flinched. The biohazard container in her hands wobbled. “Mrs… Mrs. Croft, is there something you need?” A flicker of panic crossed Laurence’s face. He stepped forward quickly, pressing a firm hand onto my mother’s shoulder. “Darling, why are you so agitated? You just gave birth. You’re weak. You shouldn’t be moving.” My mother slowly pulled her hand back, her gaze turning freezing cold. “What is in that container?” Laurence shot a subtle, warning glance at the nurse. “Just the placenta and surgical waste. It’s dirty, blood-stained, and crawling with bacteria. We don’t want you or our son getting infected. Wheel it out for biohazard disposal, now.” “Yes, sir. Right away…” The head nurse turned to bolt. [Don’t let her leave! Mom, I’m suffocating! There are no air holes in here! If you don’t stop her, you’re going to lose me again! He’s swapping us so he can use this fake heir to steal the Caldwell inheritance!] I slammed my tiny fists against the plastic walls. But my strength was negligible, producing nothing more than a faint, dry scraping sound. My mother violently threw back her blankets, struggling to swing her legs over the edge of the bed. “I told you to stop! Are you deaf?” The head nurse froze. Laurence’s expression finally darkened. “Victoria, stop this nonsense. The delivery room has strict sterile protocols. Why on earth do you want to look at medical waste?” My mother gripped the bedrail, tears welling in her eyes. Yet, for the first time in ten years, she did not soften under his gaze. “I am the Executive Director of Caldwell Holdings. In this hospital—which is entirely owned by my family—my rules are the only rules!” The gentle facade on Laurence’s face began to peel away. “Are you throwing your family’s power in my face again?” He had used that line countless times before. Every single time, my mother would panic, immediately coddling him, terrified of wounding his fragile, working-class ego. But this time, she merely said flatly, “I just want to look.” Laurence stared at her, utterly baffled by how his usually submissive, doting wife had suddenly become so unyielding. After a heavy silence, he sighed. “Fine. If you are truly that paranoid, let Lydia check.” Lydia was my mother’s most trusted personal assistant. Laurence gestured to the quiet, unassuming woman standing by the bedside. “Go on. Inspect it.” Lydia looked up, her eyes darting away for a split second. The lid of the container was pried open just a crack, letting a thin sliver of light pierce the darkness. I forced my eyes open, trying to draw enough air to scream. If I could make even the slightest sound, my mother would hear me. I would be saved. But the severe lack of oxygen left my limbs heavy and useless. I couldn’t even open my mouth. Lydia blocked the container with her body, shielding it from my mother’s line of sight. She reached in, her hand brushing against my blood-slicked skin. “Mrs. Croft.” Lydia closed the lid without a single flicker of emotion. She turned back to the bed. “I checked. It’s just medical waste and bloody fluids. It’s filthy. There’s nothing unusual. Please, preserve your health and don’t look.” My heart plummeted into a bottomless abyss. The moment her hand had reached into the bin, I had seen it—a distinct, crimson mole on her left wrist. I had seen that mole seven times in my previous seven lives. Before my mother lost each of those pregnancies, it was always that hand with the red mole that handed her herbal tonic, adjusted the bedside humidifier, or steadied her arm on the freshly waxed stairs. It was her. I wanted to scream until my lungs burst. [Mom! Don’t trust her! Lydia was bought off by Laurence a long time ago! Look at her left wrist—there’s a red mole! She was the one behind your previous seven miscarriages!] I poured every ounce of my fading consciousness into that silent scream. My mother stared at Lydia, her voice trembling. “Lydia… did you look closely? Are you absolutely sure?” Lydia squeezed out a perfectly timed tear. “Mrs. Croft, I’ve been with you since I graduated college. My loyalty is entirely yours. How could I ever lie to you? It’s just waste. Mr. Croft is only trying to protect you from seeing something so grotesque.” Laurence chimed in, his tone carrying a wounded, weary sigh. “Victoria, do you not even trust Lydia now?” My mother’s eyes flickered with doubt. I knew how hard this was for her to believe. Over the years, under the guise of wanting an independent life, Laurence had coaxed her into moving out of the Caldwell estate, gradually estranging her from her doting father and her eight adoptive brothers. Lydia was the only confidante she had left. I had to push harder. [Mom! Wake up! During your third pregnancy, she ‘guided’ you to the yoga studio and spilled the slick oil that made you fall! During your fifth, she swapped your calming incense! During your seventh, she laced your imported prenatal vitamins with banned substances!] My mother’s gaze snapped to Lydia. Her lips trembled violently, unable to form a coherent sentence. Seven miscarriages. Seven agonizing, blood-soaked procedures. Each time, she had wept in the dark, blaming her own weak womb, apologizing to Laurence while he held her and whispered that having her was enough. It had all been a lie. “Victoria, what’s wrong? Are you in pain?” Sensing her shift in expression, Laurence stepped forward to restrain her. “Bring that container to me! I want to see it myself!” my mother rasped, struggling to rise. Yet, not a single medical professional in the room moved. This hospital bore the Caldwell name, but over the years, Laurence had systematically replaced the executive staff with his own people. Laurence forced her back onto the pillows with a heavy, unyielding grip. “Victoria Croft! Enough is enough!” His voice sharpened into a harsh, lecturing reprimand. “You just delivered the Caldwell family’s heir. Instead of resting, you are obsessing over biohazards! What is wrong with you?” Lydia joined in, sobbing. “Mrs. Croft, please listen to Mr. Croft! He has worked himself to the bone for you. You are breaking his heart!” The surrounding doctors and nurses chimed in like a rehearsed choir. “Mrs. Croft, postpartum trauma can trigger severe psychological distress.” “Please, prioritize your health. Do not look.” One heavy layer of guilt-tripping after another. Looking at this united front of conspirators, my mother shook with rage, a metallic taste of blood rising in her throat. Meanwhile, my breathing grew shallower by the second. [Mom… save me… I can’t breathe… it’s so cold…] “Get off me!” Hearing my fading voice, a fierce, primal maternal instinct erupted within her. She shoved Laurence back with enough force to send him stumbling. Barefoot, her hospital gown stained with blood, she lunged toward the container. “Give it to me!” Laurence’s face turned livid, a murderous glint flashing in his eyes. “Mrs. Croft is suffering from postpartum psychosis and having severe delusions! What are you all standing around for? Restrain her!” The VIP delivery room descended into absolute chaos. Lydia rushed forward to block her, only for my mother to strike her across the face with a resounding slap. The head nurse clutched the biohazard container, backing away toward the door. Suddenly, I felt the container shake violently. A pair of rough, rubber-gloved hands reached inside in the confusion, squeezing me tight, dragging me out of the plastic bin, and stuffing me into the deep, sweaty inner pocket of a bulky hazmat suit. My head spun from the impact. [Mom! I’m not in the container anymore! She’s hiding me inside her suit! She’s squeezing me!] My mother threw open the lid of the bin. But when she looked inside, there was nothing but a few blood-soaked medical sponges. It was completely empty. My mother froze, utterly bewildered. Laurence adjusted the lapels of his tailored suit, his face contorting into an expression of deep, wounded disappointment. “Do you see now, Victoria? What is in there besides medical gauze?” “Your wild accusations have not only endangered your recovery but shattered my heart. I’m having the chief of psychiatry come in to evaluate you immediately.” His talent for turning the tables was flawless. My mother stared at the empty bin, tears spilling down her cheeks. For a terrifying second, she began to wonder if her desperate longing for a child had finally driven her to hallucinate. No! She couldn’t give up now! Using the absolute last of my strength, I sent one final, desperate cry through our bond: [Mom… I’m not dead… I’m still in this room… I really don’t… have any strength left…] My mother’s head snapped up. The despair in her eyes hardened into a freezing, razor-sharp resolve. “Search this room. Call security. Search every inch!” The medical staff stood frozen, exchanging glances, waiting for Laurence’s command. Laurence cast a dark, threatening look at the head nurse, who shrank back. “Nobody moves!” Laurence barked. “Mrs. Croft is highly unstable and experiencing a psychotic break! Prepare a sedative. Hold her down and administer it immediately!” He was going to force her into silence. Two burly nurses approached her, holding a thick syringe. “We’re sorry, Mrs. Croft. This is for your own good.” My mother fought like a cornered animal, seizing ceramic mugs and metal trays, hurling them at anyone who came near. “Get away! Touch me and see what happens! I am the heir to the Caldwell empire!” But the nurses kept advancing. Laurence, losing all patience, lunged forward and pinned her shoulders down. “Stop resisting! Inject her!” Just as the cold steel of the needle hovered centimeters from her skin— With a deafening crash, the heavy double doors of the delivery room were kicked completely off their hinges. “I dare any of you to lay a single finger on my sister.” The room fell into a suffocating silence as the sheer gravity of his presence took over. Charles Caldwell strode in, bringing the chill of the winter night with him. Behind him marched two rows of heavily armed, black-suited Caldwell security operatives. His sharp, hawk-like eyes swept over the wreckage of the room, finally resting on the bruised, red grip-marks on my mother’s wrists. My eldest uncle’s expression turned instantly lethal. “Laurence Croft. Is this how you care for my sister?” The malice in Laurence’s eyes vanished in an instant, replaced by his usual gentle, submissive demeanor. “Charles, you’ve misunderstood. Victoria just gave birth, and her postpartum depression has triggered severe hallucinations. We were only trying to calm her down.” “I am not hallucinating!” My mother violently wrenched herself from Laurence’s grip, stumbling toward Charles and clutching his bespoke lapels. “Charles, that baby boy isn’t mine! They swapped my baby!” “She’s still in this room! I can hear her begging me to save her!” Charles’s eyes narrowed. Laurence let out a weary, practiced sigh. “Charles, you know the trauma Victoria carries from her seven miscarriages. Now that she finally has a son, she’s paranoid. If you don’t believe me, we can run a DNA test right now.” Charles glanced at the baby boy cradled in the nurse’s arms, sleeping peacefully. Tears streamed down my mother’s face. “The boy has Sasha Mercer’s family birthmark behind his ear! Charles, look!” Charles strode over and parted the infant’s hair. A moment later, his expression hardened. But Laurence was prepared, stepping in smoothly. “It’s just a common birthmark!” “Are you going to accuse me of infidelity and swapping heirs based on a speck of pigmentation, Charles? I respect you as Victoria’s brother, but at the end of the day, you aren’t even a blood Caldwell.” It was an open secret in high society: the patriarch of the Caldwell family had adopted eight orphaned boys. None of them carried the Caldwell bloodline. Charles did not immediately reply. My mother gripped his arm, her nails digging deep into his sleeve. “No! Charles, she is in here! I can hear her!” “Search the room! Just search it once!” Looking down at his sister’s pale, desperate face, Charles raised a single hand. “Search.” This time, no one dared to protest. The elite Caldwell guards immediately sealed the room. They tore apart the cabinets, checked under the bed, dismantled the ceiling vents, and searched the private bathroom. They left no stone unturned. They even overturned the medical waste bin again. I heard the heavy thud of combat boots pass by me once, then twice. They were so close I wanted to cry. But I didn’t know where I was, trapped in the dark. [Uncle! I’m right here!] But no one could hear me except my mother. As the guards shook their heads in defeat, the last spark of hope in my mother’s eyes began to die. Laurence knelt before her, his voice dripping with gentle condescension. “Are you satisfied, Victoria?” “Even Charles’s men found nothing.” “There is no stolen daughter. This boy is our son.” Charles remained silent. He gently patted my mother’s shoulder, his voice softening. “Victoria, you are exhausted. Perhaps the stress has gotten to you. Let’s get you some rest.” When even her strongest ally doubted her, my mother’s world collapsed. “Am I… am I truly losing my mind?” She fell back onto the bed, weeping hysterically. “I’m sorry… Laurence, I’m sorry. Maybe I really am sick.” A smug, triumphant smirk played at the corner of Laurence’s mouth. He squeezed her hand. “It’s alright. Just sleep.” Lydia stepped forward again with the sedative. Inside my dark pocket, I panicked. [No! Mom, don’t give up!] [I’m really here… but I’m fading…] The lingering resentment of seven unborn souls, combined with the sheer despair of being discarded like trash by my own father, boiled up inside my tiny chest. I refused to let it end like this. I hadn’t even looked at my mother yet. My trillion-dollar heiress life hadn’t even begun. I wasn’t going to die in a hazmat suit. Gathering every last ounce of life force left in my newborn body, I kicked out with all my might. A sharp, agonized shriek pierced the silence. “Ah!” The head nurse doubled over in pain, clutching her abdomen. The poorly tied sash of her medical pants snapped under the sudden impact. Thud. A tiny baby girl slid down her pant leg, tumbling onto the sterile floor.
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