At six months pregnant, I suddenly heard my unborn baby screaming for help inside my womb. “Mommy, help me! Please, you have to get me out early. Call the doctor, do the C-section now!” “I have a congenital respiratory illness. If I stay in here any longer, I’m going to suffocate!” Hearing those desperate, agonizing pleas, I had gritted my teeth and demanded an emergency premature C-section. It ended in a double tragedy. Both of us died on the operating table. Right before my consciousness faded into blackness, I heard the doctor’s baffled, sorrowful whisper: “The baby was perfectly healthy. There was absolutely nothing wrong with his lungs.” But now, I had been reborn. And once again, the frantic cries for help echoed in my mind. Except this time, a second voice emerged—tiny, soft, and sweet. “Mommy, don’t believe that voice. They’re trying to force you into premature labor. They want to harvest my cord blood for his secret child. His mistress’s baby has a severe blood disease, and if he doesn’t get my cord blood this month, he’s going to die. That’s why your garbage husband is so desperate to get you onto that operating table.” … “If you don’t do this C-section right now, neither you nor the baby will make it out alive!” Sitting in my wheelchair, a cold shiver ran down my spine. In my previous life, the voice crying in my ear had always belonged to a baby boy. Why was there suddenly a little girl’s voice now? Where was it coming from? Before I could wrap my head around it, my husband, Connor Derrick, grabbed my wrists tightly. His face was a mask of sheer panic. “The doctor said the baby is already struggling to breathe. The OR is fully prepped. We have to go, Samantha! Now!” “His illegitimate child is fading,” the sweet little voice whispered in my mind again. “They’re running out of time, and they need my cord blood. Mommy, don’t you dare agree to this.” I frowned, my chest tightening. Within seconds, our live-in baby nurse, Chloe Pratt, stepped forward, her voice trembling with manufactured urgency. “Mrs. Rutherford, we can’t wait! Any longer and the baby will die!” “Look how panicked she is,” the little girl’s voice scoffed. “Her own child is dying. She’s losing her mind. If you die on that table, they’re going to swap us. They’ll forge a DNA test to convince Grandpa and Grandma that the bastard is your only surviving bloodline. Your family will pour all their resources into raising him, lifting a kid who belongs in a trailer park straight into high society. The sick baby is at Mercy Hill Private Clinic right now. If you don’t believe me, Mommy, go check.” Connor indeed came from nothing. If my family hadn’t patronized his talent and funded his career, he’d still be drowning in debt in some run-down rural town. As for Chloe, Connor was the one who had handpicked her, claiming she was the most qualified, elite maternity nurse who could ease my transition into motherhood. “Simon,” I said, turning my gaze to my personal assistant, Simon Fletcher. “Check Mercy Hill Private Clinic. Find out if there is a pediatric patient there with a severe blood disorder currently awaiting a cord blood transplant.” At those words, the color drained instantly from both Connor and Chloe’s faces. Connor’s grip on my wrist tightened, his voice dropping to a rushed, defensive whisper. “Samantha, why on earth are you asking about that now? We can run whatever background checks you want after the baby is safe. We need to go!” “What are you all standing around for? Get the wheelchair to the car!” Chloe snapped, lifting her chin to command the estate’s bodyguards. The guards took a step toward me. During my pregnancy, Connor had constantly told me how much he worried about my stress levels, insisting I hand over the household management to Chloe. Over the past six months, she had practically run the estate. It seemed she had truly started to believe she was the mistress of the house. “I dare any of you to lay a finger on me,” I said, my voice dropping to a low, freezing temperature as I stared the guards down. “Have you forgotten who actually signs your paychecks every month?” “Why are you bringing up money right now?” Connor scowled, his tone laced with sharp reprimand. “Chloe just took over the estate management. If you publicly humiliate her like this, how is anyone supposed to respect her authority? Stop throwing a tantrum, Samantha. Be reasonable and get to the hospital.” “Oh, I’ll go to the hospital,” I said. A flash of relief washed over Chloe’s face, but it withered instantly at my next words. “But first, I want a comprehensive ultrasound. I want to know, once and for all, whether I am carrying a boy or a girl.” The heavy silence in the room was broken only by the sound of a porcelain teacup slipping from Chloe’s fingers and shattering against the hardwood floor. Connor rushed to my side, his brows furrowed in utter bewilderment. “We talked about this, Sam. We agreed that boy or girl, we would love them just the same. Just get the C-section. You’ll know the gender the second the baby is out. If we delay this any longer, something terrible is going to happen.” In my mind, the frantic boy’s voice wailed again. “Mommy, I’m suffocating. I really can’t breathe. Please do the C-section. I want to meet you. I don’t want to die.” But the soft, sweet girl’s voice countered immediately: “Mommy, if you let them cut me out right now, we either both die on that table, or I’ll be born so premature that I won’t survive, and your uterus will be so badly damaged you’ll never be able to conceive again. Then, your garbage husband will blame you. He’ll say you waited too long, burying you under so much guilt that you’ll agree to adopt. He’ll bring his illegitimate son into our home under the guise of adoption, and you’ll be forced to watch him and the nanny play happy family while you spiral into postpartum depression and jump off a building. This is my third time trying to save us. You can finally hear me. Please, do not let them cut me out.” As the words echoed in my head, a deluge of memories from my past two lives crashed into my mind. In my first life, I had listened to the boy’s voice, rushed into an early C-section, and we both died. The illegitimate child was brought in to replace my lost baby. In my second life, I had still heard the voice but delayed the surgery out of sheer terror for two weeks. The baby was stillborn. Afterward, Connor had subjected me to a relentless campaign of psychological abuse. “If you had just listened and done the surgery earlier, my baby would be alive! You are a murderer!” he had screamed at me day after day. Freshly traumatized by the loss of my child, his accusations broke me. I shrank into myself, drowning in agonizing guilt. Eventually, I agreed to adopt a baby boy and put my entire family trust fund into his name. But as the boy grew, no matter how much love I poured into him, he remained cold and distant to me, while clinging desperately to Chloe. When I tried to fire her, Connor’s mother had cornered me with moral blackmail: “The boy is used to Chloe! You already killed your own child, do you want to destroy this one too? You selfish monster!” Connor had mocked my suffering. “You agreed to the adoption, Samantha. Now the boy wants nothing to do with you because you spend all day crying and acting like a lunatic. Who would want a mother like you?” Unable to bear the suffocating darkness, I had finally jumped from the roof of our estate. The memories felt so real, the phantom wind of the fall still whistling in my ears. “He already bribed the doctors at Mercy Hill Clinic,” the little girl’s voice warned, trembling slightly. “The surgeon will make sure you suffer a massive hemorrhage on the table. Mommy, the only reason you survived the surgery in your second life was because you delayed it for two weeks. You were strong enough to survive the blood loss, but I had already passed away in your womb.” “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Are you in pain?” Connor urged, his hand gripping the back of my wheelchair, trying to push me toward the waiting car. “We really don’t have time for this. We need to leave!” Before he could move me, Simon ran back into the courtyard, slightly out of breath. “Ma’am, I just confirmed it. There is a child currently admitted at Mercy Hill Clinic under critical care, desperately requiring a cord blood match.” My heart skipped a beat. “Take me to see that child. And draw a blood sample from Chloe for a DNA comparison.” “Have you completely lost your mind?” Connor bellowed, his face twisting with rage. “Are you seriously playing games when there is a living child’s life at stake in your womb? Do you even deserve to be a mother?” “She’s right, Mr. Derrick. You can afford to wait, but the baby in your belly cannot!” Chloe added, tears welling in her eyes as she tried to pull my wheelchair away from Connor. I rested my hand over my stomach, my jaw set. “Mommy, I can’t breathe. I think I’m dying,” the boy’s voice whimpered. “Please listen to them. Get me out.” I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and made my decision. “Before any surgery, I am getting an ultrasound to verify the baby’s gender.” Chloe froze, her eyes widening in sheer panic. “Mrs. Rutherford, nothing is more important than the baby’s life! If this child dies because of your stubbornness, can you live with that guilt?” “You are a hired servant. Since when do you have the right to question my decisions?” I looked up at her, my eyes cold and dead. “And as for my child—if she dies, it is my burden to bear. Not yours.” Connor stepped forward, grabbing my wrist again, his tone dripping with patronizing condescension. “Chloe is going to help you raise this child, Samantha. You should be grateful to her. Didn’t I tell you we should treat her like family? Raising a child is exhausting, and she’s taking the brunt of the hard work so you can rest. Show some gratitude.” “She’s taking the brunt of the work?” I let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Am I not paying her an exorbitant salary? If she’s getting paid, this is a transactional employment. Don’t try to guilt-trip me with your twisted morals.” Connor looked stunned, clearly caught off guard by my sudden, sharp defiance. His face darkened, his patience evaporating. “Samantha, what is wrong with you today?” I ignored him, gripping the armrests of my wheelchair, and looked directly at our private security guards. “We are not going to Mercy Hill Clinic. Drive me to Rutherford Memorial Hospital. I want a gender scan immediately.” Connor chased after the car as we boarded. “We live in the twenty-first century, Samantha! Why are you so obsessed with the baby’s gender? Don’t you know prenatal sex determination is highly regulated? The baby is on the verge of death, and you’re obsessed with whether it’s a boy or a girl?” Chloe quickly climbed into the passenger seat, shoving her phone in front of my face. The voice of a doctor from Mercy Hill was on the line, sounding incredibly frantic, insisting that a scan was a waste of time and that I needed to be wheeled into surgery immediately. “You can’t do the scan! See? Even the specialist says so!” Chloe cried, her forehead slick with cold sweat. She turned to the driver. “Hurry, take us to Mercy Hill!” The commotion in the hospital lobby when we arrived drew a crowd of onlookers. People began whispering, casting judging looks my way. “She’s already six months along. Is she seriously going to abort the baby if it’s a girl?” “Her husband looks so devoted. He probably cooks for her and takes care of her every single day, and she’s here acting like a spoiled brat.” As they wheeled me toward the elevator, the murmurs in the corridor made my head throb. “Mommy, Daddy loves you so much. You should listen to him. Give birth to me, and let’s take care of him and his family together,” the boy’s voice urged, sounding sweet and compliant. “Aunt Chloe is so kind to us. Why won’t you listen to her? Let’s just go to the operating room.” “Mommy, don’t do the scan at Rutherford Memorial. The doctors there are corrupt; they’ve been bribed. They will lie to you. Listen to Daddy.” I blocked out the voices entirely. Once inside Rutherford Memorial Hospital, the obstetrician on duty performed a routine fetal heart rate check and handed me the chart. “The detailed ultrasound report will take some time to process. Please wait in the lounge.” Connor grabbed my hand, his voice laced with desperate pleading. “Samantha, you can wait, but the baby can’t! You can’t honestly tell me you’d abort our child just because she might be a girl?” “I never said I wanted to abort my baby,” I replied, my voice flat. “I simply want to know.” The doctor looked at my stomach, a flicker of disapproval in her eyes. “You’re six months pregnant. Why does the gender matter so much now? If it turns out to be a girl, surely you aren’t planning on an illegal late-term termination? The law strictly prohibits that.” I didn’t bother defending myself against the silent accusations of the medical staff. I walked out to the waiting room, sitting in silence. Connor was practically vibrating with anxiety, pacing back and forth, sweat dripping down his temples. But no matter what he said, I refused to move until the official report was in my hands. Suddenly, Chloe burst through the double doors of the waiting room, clutching a printed medical chart. “Mrs. Rutherford, we have to transfer you to Mercy Hill for an emergency C-section immediately!” she screamed, thrusting the paper in my face. “I just had the lab print your latest fetal monitor strip. Look at this! The baby’s heart rate has plummeted to ninety beats per minute! Every second we waste is a second closer to brain damage or death!” Connor bolted upright. “What are we waiting for? Call the ambulance! Get the surgical team ready!” I stared at the bold red stamp on the paper: “CRITICAL DISTRESS. RECOMMEND IMMEDIATE TERMINATION OF PREGNANCY.” Out of nowhere, my mother-in-law, Mrs. Derrick, rushed into the waiting room, sobbing hysterically and begging me to save her grandchild. My breathing grew shallow. My mind spun in a vortex of doubt. Then, the little girl’s voice spoke again, clear and steady. “Mommy, they’re lying. That chart is a forgery. Chloe’s baby will die if he doesn’t get my cord blood within the hour. She is desperate to get you onto that operating table.” I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms. Around us, the patients and nurses in the lobby began to murmur loudly. “Her baby’s heart rate is dropping that low, and she’s still sitting there waiting for a gender report? How heartless can a mother be?” “Is a boy or a girl really more important than a human life? If that baby dies, she’ll regret this for the rest of her life!” “I’ve never seen a pregnant woman so utterly cruel.” Seeing that I still wouldn’t budge, Mrs. Derrick suddenly dropped to her knees in front of me, sobbing loudly in front of the entire waiting room. “Samantha, I beg you! Please, save the baby!” the elderly woman wailed, clutching at my knees. “The baby is six months old! That is a living soul!” “If I’ve ever done anything to upset you, you can beat me, you can curse me, but please don’t take it out on an innocent child! As the baby’s grandmother, I cannot watch my own flesh and blood die! I beg you!” The crowd’s whispers turned into open condemnation. “Mom, please get up. That’s not what I meant…” I muttered, my stomach turning. “Then what do you mean?” Connor demanded, his eyes bloodshot as he stared at me. “My mother is nearly seventy years old, Samantha! She is kneeling and begging you in public!” “All she wants is for you and our baby to be safe. Do you really have to push her to the brink of death before you’re satisfied?” Looking at my sobbing mother-in-law on the floor, a cold dread washed over me. The judgmental stares of the crowd felt suffocating, almost physical. “Fine,” Connor said, his voice dropping to a low, urgent murmur. “If you must wait for the gender results, let’s at least transfer to Mercy Hill now. The moment the report is delivered, we can go straight into the OR. That way, we won’t waste a single second.” Under the overwhelming pressure of the crowd, I finally nodded. But the moment we arrived at Mercy Hill Private Clinic, they didn’t wait for any reports. I was immediately hoisted onto a gurney and wheeled straight into an operating room. The doctor on duty, a cold-faced man, immediately drew a clear fluid into a large syringe. The little girl’s voice returned, but this time, she was crying. “Mommy, that’s not an anesthetic! That is a lethal dose of potassium chloride! One injection, and my heart will stop instantly. They don’t want me to live—they only want my cord blood!” An icy spike of adrenaline shot through my veins. I kicked out wildly, breaking free from the nurses’ grip, and snatched the syringe straight out of the doctor’s hand. “What is this?” I demanded, my voice trembling with rage. “Why has the label on this vial been deliberately scraped off?” Chloe gasped, taking a step back. Connor quickly stepped in, his voice taking on a soothing, manipulative cadence. “Samantha, please, stop this. Hospital medications are strictly regulated. Are you really going to halt a life-saving surgery over a torn label?” He leaned over me, his hands pressing down on my shoulders to force me back onto the gurney. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ve already signed the spousal consent form to accompany you into the OR. I’ll be right by your side the entire time.” I summoned every ounce of strength I had left and shoved him away, glaring at the medical staff surrounding me. “I am the sole trustee and beneficiary of the Rutherford Medical Trust,” I announced, my voice ringing out with absolute authority. “Under the law, any medical procedure performed on my body requires my explicit, written consent. If any of you touch me without my signature, I will have you arrested for assault and attempted murder!” Connor’s face turned a violent shade of purple. “Samantha! We have been married for years, and you’re using your family’s money and status to threaten me? I am the biological father of that child! I have the legal right to authorize an emergency procedure to save my baby’s life!” “Just close your eyes and trust me, Sam!” He signaled the nurses, and they lunged forward to pin me down. I fought back with everything I had, but I was vastly outnumbered. Just as they were about to force the needle into my arm, a loud bang echoed from the heavy double doors of the surgical suite. “Stop!” Simon Fletcher ran into the room, holding a sealed manila envelope, gasping for air. “Mrs. Rutherford, I have the official lab results from Rutherford Memorial!” He marched past the stunned security guards and handed the paper directly to me. “The ultrasound and genetic screening are complete. You are carrying a healthy baby girl.”
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