On the third day after our daughter was born, I asked Conrad for money to buy infant formula. Instead of an envelope or a card, he carried a stack of wrapped mystery boxes into my hospital room. “Pick one,” he said. In three years of marriage, my entire living allowance had been decided by the draw of a blind box. The most I had ever pulled was one hundred and eight dollars. It had all started on our engagement day. The traditional bridal gift had been settled at a reasonable one hundred and eight thousand dollars. But just as the agreements were being signed, my father suddenly produced an opaque acrylic raffle box, grinning broadly at the room full of high-society guests. “Let’s not be old-fashioned!” my father had announced, clapping Conrad on the shoulder. “Whatever you draw is what you give!” I had frozen on the spot, cold dread pooling in my stomach. What no one anticipated was Conrad drawing the highest slip in the box: one point eight eight million dollars. He didn’t flinch. He wired the full amount that very afternoon, then threw me a wedding that made the front page of every lifestyle magazine in the city. Everyone whispered that Conrad was madly, desperately in love with me. Yet on the second morning of our marriage, he hurled an entire crate of sealed boxes onto the marble floor in front of me. “Doesn’t your family love games of chance?” His voice had been devoid of warmth. “From now on, your allowance is decided the same way.” For three years, my monthly budget swung between nine dollars and ninety cents and a hundred and eight. When I got pregnant, I foolishly thought having a child would change things. But here I was, three days post-labor, simply asking for a can of formula, and the stack of cardboard boxes was placed before me once again. I peeled one open. The slip inside read: “$9.90”. A second later, my phone vibrated. My younger sister, Tiffany, who had delivered her own baby in the private wing just down the hall, had posted a screenshot of a wire transfer on Instagram. Nine hundred and ninety thousand dollars. Her caption read: “Thank you, brother-in-law, for my baby girl’s welcome gift.” I stared at the screen until the numbers blurred into a blinding haze of white. Then, my fingers shaking, I dialed an overseas number. “You once told me,” I whispered into the receiver, “that you would gladly be a father to my child.” A heartbeat of silence followed. “Seven days,” I said. “Come get me in seven days.” … As I unwrapped the box, the floor nurse leaned in curiously from the foot of the bed. “Aww, a gift from your husband? That is so creative!” She smiled, her eyes lingering on the neat stack of colorful packaging. Then she caught sight of the flimsy slip of paper in my hand: “Allowance: $9.90.” The air in the room instantly died. Conrad didn’t blink. He motioned to his assistant to carry the remaining boxes out, his tone crisp and indifferent. “Giving birth doesn’t mean the house rules get broken.” The nurse opened her mouth, her expression contorting into something between disbelief and pity. She clearly wanted to ask what kind of monstrous rule subjected a postpartum mother to a ten-dollar raffle. How could I possibly explain it to her? How could I explain that on the day of my engagement, my parents had secretly swapped the agreed-upon bridal gift for high-stakes raffle slips behind my back—all to secure a luxury townhouse and an investment fund for my sister? How could I explain that when I confronted them, my mother had clutched her chest, sobbing that she would throw herself off the balcony if I dared tell Conrad the truth? How could I explain that ever since then, Conrad’s influence had quietly blacklisted me from every design firm in the city, leaving me entirely dependent on the scraps inside these cardboard boxes? I looked down at the plastic bassinet beside my bed. My daughter lay there, her tiny face scrunched up, sleeping fitfully. “Conrad,” I said quietly, “could I at least buy a temperature-regulated swaddle? Newborns can’t maintain their body heat, and—” “Using the kid to squeeze cash out of me already?” he cut in. “The hospital provides blankets.” The heavy wooden door clicked shut. His leather oxfords struck the hallway floor with measured, rhythmic snaps, fading into the distance. A moment later, the nurse slipped back inside. She carried a soft, fleece receiving blanket tucked against her chest. “It’s an extra from our station,” she whispered, carefully wrapping it around my daughter’s frail frame. “It’s clean. Use it for her, okay?” A complete stranger, showing more tenderness to my child than her own father ever had. “Thank you,” I managed to say. The nurse hesitated by the door, offering a gentle, awkward reassurance. “Your husband… maybe he’s just bad at expressing himself.” I offered a faint, hollow smile and said nothing. That night, Tiffany’s social media lit up again. A photo of a sunlit VIP suite, overflowing with imported organic baby gear and custom silk cribbing. Her caption: “He told me the baby deserves only the best. No compromises.” A string of likes trailed underneath. Conrad. My mother. My father. All of them. “No compromises.” The phrase echoed in my head. I remembered years ago, when Conrad had pulled me against his chest on a rainy evening and murmured, “If we ever have a girl, I’m going to spoil her until she’s the happiest little princess in the world.” Back then, his eyes had held an unvarnished light. Now, that light had simply shifted to someone else’s child. I smoothed the edges of the $9.90 slip, folded it neatly, and placed it inside my worn leather wallet. Tucked behind it was last month’s slip: $6.60. And the month before that: $5.30. I didn’t hear the door open, but Conrad was suddenly standing on the threshold. He watched my fingers slide the paper away, his mouth tightening into a thin line. “Take care of the baby,” he said coldly. “And stop scheming for cash.” He stepped back out into the corridor to take a call. Through the narrow gap in the door, his low chuckle carried into the quiet room. “You lost the bet,” he said into the phone. “She didn’t make a scene. A gold-digger doesn’t walk away from the title of Mrs. Conrad, especially not after dropping an heir.” I leaned back against the thin hospital pillows and closed my eyes. My phone chimed. An international number. A low, familiar voice broke the silence. “The tickets are booked. Seven days from now. Don’t look back.” I didn’t speak. “June,” he said softly. “Wait for me.” I reached out and brushed my knuckles against my daughter’s cheek. She was still asleep, but her tiny fingers instinctively gripped my pinky, clutching it with fierce, desperate strength. “I will,” I said. … On the morning of my discharge, I packed our meager belongings before the sun had fully risen. My daughter wore the only new onesie she owned—a pastel cotton sleeper given to me by my closest friend. I sat on the edge of the mattress with the baby in my arms, waiting for Conrad to arrive. At ten o’clock, a single text came through. “I sent a car for you. I’m with Tiffany. She’s being discharged today too, and there’s no one to help her carry the bags.” Unexpected, yet entirely predictable. Ever since Tiffany’s fiancé had died in an accident last year, Conrad had taken on the role of her tireless benefactor. I closed the thread without replying. The black town car was prompt, the interior immaculate. As the car merged onto the highway, my daughter stirred against my chest, whimpering with hunger. I pulled out a small bottle of expressed milk. Glancing up, I met the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror. His face was tight with discomfort. “Ma’am… I’m sorry,” he said carefully. “Mr. Conrad gave explicit instructions. No food or drinks permitted in the vehicle.” I paused, bottle in hand. “It’s just formula for an infant. She won’t spill anything.” “Mr. Conrad was very clear, ma’am. Please don’t put my job on the line.” My hands went still. Slowly, I put the bottle back into my bag and gathered my daughter tighter against my shoulder. She began to wail, her hungry cries piercing and raw. I spent the entire forty-minute drive patting her back in small, helpless circles, whispering useless apologies against her temple. When I finally reached the quiet house, I opened my phone to find a short video posted by Tiffany. She was sitting in the passenger seat of Conrad’s custom SUV, laughing as she tossed fresh dark cherries into her mouth. Deep red juice splattered casually across the leather console. Beside her, Conrad had one hand on the steering wheel, glancing sideways at her with a fond, indulgent smirk. In the back seat, my mother was cradling Tiffany’s chubby infant, while my father gently dabbed milk from the baby’s chin, his eyes crinkling behind his glasses. A picture-perfect family portrait. I swiped the app away. Later that afternoon, the doorbell chimed. Tiffany stood on the porch, her daughter nestled comfortably in her arms—plump, rosy-cheeked, and dressed in designer cashmere. She leaned past me, peering into the living room where an old, secondhand wooden crib sat in the corner. A patronizing chuckle slipped past her lips. “June… that crib looks ancient,” she said, tapping her manicured nails against her chin. “Conrad is loaded. Why is he making you use junk?” I said nothing. She reached into her designer diaper bag and pulled out a bundle of clothing, thrusting it toward me. “Here. Some outfits my little girl outgrew. Don’t turn your nose up at them—the fabric is top-tier. Conrad bought them all; they cost thousands.” She glanced down at my daughter, whose pale face looked tiny and drawn beneath her thin blanket. Tiffany’s smile never wavered. “God, June. Why is yours so scrawny?” I took the bundle. A flat, brittle “Thank you” scraped past my vocal cords. I shut the door, walked straight to the kitchen, and dropped the designer clothes directly into the trash bin. That evening, Bridget called. “I saw that disgusting video Tiffany posted!” Bridget yelled through the speaker, her voice thick with righteous indignation. “She’s doing this on purpose, June! And Conrad—you suffered a massive hemorrhage having that baby, how can he treat you like this? Tell me what you need for the baby. I’ll buy it right now.” “Bridget, thank you,” I murmured, exhausted to the bone. “Don’t thank me. You know you’re always my number one priority.” A prickle of warmth touched behind my eyes. At least, I thought, I still had one person in the world who cared whether I lived or died. After hanging up, I began to sort through our things. A few changes of clothes for me, the baby’s documents, a tiny fleece blanket. I tucked the small duffel into the deepest recess of the closet. I didn’t realize Conrad had come home until I heard a dry chuckle behind me. He was leaning against the bedroom doorframe, watching me with cynical amusement. “If you want money for a shopping spree, just ask,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t play the martyr.” I kept my back to him. He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his heavy chin against the crown of my head. The sour reek of bourbon washed over me, but his voice was unexpectedly quiet. “June. Stop fighting me.” For a split second, my breath caught. Years ago, he had held me like this. I had been shivering with a sudden, vicious flu, and he had driven seven hours through a blinding midnight blizzard just to wrap me in his coat and whisper, “You never have to wait out the storm alone again.” Now, the familiar warmth of his chest felt like a phantom limb. He was only gentle because he was drunk. The man who had once driven through a blizzard couldn’t even be bothered to pick up his own newborn child from the hospital. I carefully unclasped his fingers and stepped away. “I’m not fighting.” … At three in the morning, my daughter woke up screaming. I lifted her to my breast, but she pulled away after a few dry tugs, sobbing hysterically. The stress had dried up my milk. I tore through the kitchen cabinets—there was no formula. I pulled up my banking app. Available balance: $9.90. 3:10 AM. 3:30 AM. 4:00 AM. Her cries grew hoarser, thin and reedy with exhaustion. I walked laps across the hardwood floor, pacing back and forth, rocking her until my arms turned numb. Behind the closed master bedroom door, Conrad slept without stirring. I pressed my lips against the baby’s burning forehead. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, tears dripping onto her downy hair. “Just a few more days, baby. Mommy is taking you away.” … By morning, her temperature spiked to 103.6. Panic seized me. I wrapped her in the fleece blanket and ran into the emergency room, clutching her trembling body as I waited in the triage line. The physician pulled the stethoscope from his ears, his eyebrows pulling into a sharp, severe line. “She’s severely dehydrated and underweight,” he said bluntly, looking up from his clipboard with open judgment. “Her immune system is completely compromised. An infection in a newborn this fragile is life-threatening. What on earth have you two been doing?” My lips parted, but no sound came out. What had we been doing? Our entire monthly budget was ten dollars. Desperate, I called Conrad. To my shock, he actually answered, and twenty minutes later, he walked into the sterile corridor. A sliver of pathetic hope flared in my chest. In three years, I had never once begged him. “She needs specialized formula,” I pleaded, my voice breaking in front of the registration desk. “She needs pediatric nutritional supplements. Conrad, please. Just stop the mystery boxes. Just give me enough to feed her.” He looked at me for several long seconds, his expression completely blank. Then he reached into his slacks, pulled out a credit card, and tossed it onto the plastic counter. “There’s a two-thousand-dollar limit on it,” he said flatly. “That’s more than enough.” “It’s not,” I cried, grabbing his sleeve. “The doctor said she needs extended monitoring, blood work, possible—” His face hardened instantly, shaking off my hand. “June, one point eight eight million dollars wasn’t enough to satisfy your family’s greed, and now two grand is pocket change to you?” He leaned down, his eyes dark with contempt. “When you sat there smiling while your father pulled that raffle stunt at our engagement, did you ever consider there’d be a price to pay?” “I didn’t set up that raffle!” The scream tore from my throat, raw and ragged. “My parents did it behind my back! They took every single cent of that money to buy Tiffany a condo and pay off her debts! I never touched a dime of it!” Conrad blinked, caught off guard for half a second. Then, he let out a cold, venomous laugh. “You really will fabricate anything for a payout, won’t you? First you invent a sick baby, and now you’re throwing your own parents under the bus.” He sneered, turning his back on me. “Don’t think popping out a kid gives you leverage. You think I don’t see right through your pathetic little hustle?” Before I could speak, his phone rang. The caller ID flashed brightly across the screen: “Tiffany.” He answered instantly, his voice transforming into something tender and attentive. “You’re there? Which exam room? I’m coming right now.” He hung up and strode away down the brightly lit corridor without glancing back once. He hadn’t come to the hospital for our daughter. He was here to accompany Tiffany’s baby for a routine wellness checkup. I stood frozen in the middle of the hallway, holding my shrieking, feverish child, watching his silhouette disappear around the corner. At the hospital entrance an hour later, a familiar voice called out. “June.” Tiffany stood beneath the glass awning, dressed in an impeccably tailored coat. In her arms, her baby gurgled happily, dressed in head-to-toe designer clothes. Tiffany took in my daughter’s pale, sweat-slicked skin, an unreadable flicker passing through her eyes. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, she reached into her nanny’s tote bag and produced an unopened tin of premium formula. “Here,” she said, dangling it casually in front of my face. “My girl can’t finish her stash anyway. Conrad felt so terrible for us being on our own that he ordered a hundred cases straight from Europe.” I looked at the tin. Two hundred dollars a can. My daughter’s entire monthly living expense wasn’t enough to buy two scoops of that powder. My fingernails dug into the meat of my palms until they bled. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and took the charity. That night, I called my mother. “Mom,” I wept into the phone. “The baby needs to be admitted. Can you please lend me some money? Just a few thousand dollars.” The line went quiet for several beats. “Your sister just had a baby too, June! Everything costs money right now. Ask your millionaire husband!” “Mom, please—” “Stop calling me! Tiffany is trying to rest. You’re going to wake her baby!” “Click.” Late that night, I fell into an exhausted stupor on the living room couch, holding my daughter against my chest. Sometime in the dark, a soft blanket was draped over my shoulders. Through heavy eyelids, I saw Conrad’s tall frame bending over us, his touch unusually careful, as if afraid to wake the room. Yet the next morning, a fresh set of wrapped boxes sat neatly on the glass dining table. He sat across from them, sipping an espresso. He gestured to the pile with a tilt of his chin. “Go on. Draw.” I looked at the colorful packages, and a profound, hollow exhaustion settled into my bones. “Conrad, I’m done,” I said quietly. “I won’t draw anymore.” His cup paused mid-air. He set it down slowly, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. “What’s the angle this time? Yesterday it was the ER. What melodrama are you staging today to squeeze cash out of me?” I didn’t answer him. I turned around and quietly began to measure out a bottle of the formula Tiffany had handed me like table scraps. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Bridget: “June, there’s something I need to tell you… I don’t know if I should…” A typing bubble appeared beneath it. Before the text could come through, a high-pitched, terrifying shriek erupted from the bassinet. I dropped the bottle and rushed over. The digital thermometer flashed red. 104.2. I slammed the phone shut, scooped my burning child into my arms, and bolted out the front door. … Outside the pediatric intensive care unit, the fluorescent lights buzzed with a dull, sickening drone. I dialed Conrad’s cell phone. No answer. Five calls. Ten calls. My hands shook so violently the glass screen slipped against my sweating palms. On the twelfth attempt, the line finally clicked open. “What?” he snapped, his voice sharp with annoyance. “She’s in septic shock,” I sobbed, collapsing against the linoleum wall. “Her fever won’t break. The doctors need to perform an emergency lumbar puncture and surgery immediately, but they need an upfront deposit. Conrad, please, come pay the deposit. Please.” A cold pause stretched across the line. “How much?” “Eight thousand dollars minimum.” A dry, caustic chuckle echoed through the receiver. “You really never change, do you, June? Two grand wasn’t enough yesterday, so today you quadruple the price tag?” I slid down onto my knees, my voice shattering into incoherent fragments. “Conrad, I am begging you on my knees! She’s dying! The doctors said if we don’t pay, they can’t prep the operating room! I swear to God on my life, please!” Silence fell over the line. “I’m on my way,” he muttered, and hung up. I sat against the wall for an hour, my eyes fixed on the elevator doors at the end of the hall. The floor remained empty. I dialed his number again. It went straight to voicemail. Only later would I discover that just as he grabbed his car keys, Tiffany had called him, sobbing into the phone: “Conrad, the baby choked on her milk, she won’t stop coughing, I’m terrified…” He had hesitated, then driven straight to her penthouse instead. When he arrived, the baby had already burped and was giggling softly on the rug. But Tiffany had clung to his jacket sleeve, looking up at him with tear-filled eyes, whispering that she was too traumatized to be left alone. He had walked toward the front door, hesitated, and then stayed. Meanwhile, back at the hospital, the head nurse sprinted out of the double doors for the third time, her face pale. “Family of the infant! We need the surgical deposit immediately! If we don’t start right now, it’s going to be too late!” I fell to my knees before the billing window, dumping the contents of my purse across the counter. An old driver’s license. A worn lip balm. A banking balance of $9.90. It was already too late. The heavy double doors swung open with a pneumatic hiss. The attending surgeon walked out, slowly pulling down his surgical mask, his eyes dark with defeat. “The severe malnutrition left her with no immune reserve,” he said softly, his voice trembling slightly. “The high fever triggered multi-organ failure. If we had operated an hour ago… maybe.” He shook his head. “We did everything we could.” A nurse stepped forward, carrying a small, silent bundle swaddled in white cloth. She placed my daughter into my arms. She was impossibly small. Impossibly light. Her tiny fist was still curled tight, the exact same way she had gripped my pinky in the hospital bed. Only now, the warmth was completely gone. A single drop of moisture fell from my chin, sinking into the cold cotton. The nurse rubbed my trembling back in silent sympathy, offering a pen and a clipboard. “You need to sign the release, honey.” I don’t remember writing my name. Eight thousand dollars. The price of a single designer coat in Tiffany’s closet. It had cost my daughter her life. This time, I didn’t dial Conrad’s number. Two hours later, his text lit up my screen. “Is the kid fine now? Stop calling me like a lunatic. I’m busy.” I didn’t reply. Ten minutes later, another message: “Sulking again? Yesterday you turned your nose up at two grand, today you hold a fake illness over my head. Can you come up with a new routine for once?” I looked at the glowing words, and a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh tore from my throat. Even now, he thought this was a negotiation. I closed the thread, wiped my face, and called David Mitchell, an attorney who had once handled contracts for our family. “Mr. Mitchell,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I want to file for an immediate divorce.” On the other end of the line, the sound of rhythmic typing suddenly ceased. “June…” Mitchell hesitated, his tone shifting into profound bewilderment. “I just pulled the civil registry. There is no record of your marriage to Conrad.” “What do you mean?” “The state marriage license under Conrad’s name… his legal spouse is registered as Tiffany.” I held the phone to my ear, listening to the static hum. A long, hollow moment passed. “I understand,” I said quietly, and hung up. Then I remembered Bridget’s unfinished text. I opened her chat history to find four forwarded screenshots. A family group chat titled “The Inner Circle.” Members: Mom, Dad, Tiffany, Conrad, Bridget. Everyone was there. Except me. The most recent message was a photo posted by Tiffany: a certified birth certificate. In the box marked “Father”: Conrad. My mother’s reply: “She’s gorgeous, sweetie! Looks just like her daddy!” My father’s reply: “You worked so hard, Tiffany.” Bridget’s reply: “Congratulations, babe! So thrilled for you both!” Directly beneath that, Conrad had sent a direct wire transfer of $990,000. I swiped to the next image—a private exchange between Tiffany and Bridget from two days prior. Tiffany: “Did my sister cry to you again today?” Bridget: “Yeah. I fed her the usual supportive nonsense just like you asked. She doesn’t suspect a thing.” Tiffany: “Thanks so much! Dinner’s on me this weekend~” Bridget: “Anytime. June is such a pathetic, rigid idiot anyway. If she ever found out the truth, it’d be a massive headache.” A headache. All those impassioned phone calls. All that furious indignation. “You’re my number one priority.” Every single syllable had been paid for. I locked my phone. Not a single tear fell. I walked out of the hospital into the gray, breaking dawn, looking down at the bundle in my arms. It was empty. Reaching into my coat pocket, I pulled out my worn leather wallet. One by one, I extracted three years’ worth of folded slips. $9.90. $6.60. $5.30. $1.80. I dropped them into the roadside garbage bin, watching them flutter among the cigarette butts and crushed coffee cups. Then, I turned toward the subway entrance and caught the express train to the international airport. The final message from Conrad sat unread on my screen. He was probably still sitting in his ivory tower, smugly waiting for me to break down and beg him. He had no idea that there was nothing left on this earth to beg for. The seven days were up. … Three days later. Conrad picked up his phone and dialed the pediatric ward. “Tell that gold-digger she won’t need to draw from the boxes starting next month,” he said coldly. “I’ll transfer her normal allowance. Tell her to drop this pathetic game of playing hard to get.” A confused silence hung on the other end before the nurse spoke hesitantly. “Mr. Conrad? Mrs. Conrad checked out three days ago.” “And the baby?” The pause stretched, heavy and suffocating. “Mr. Conrad… we did everything we could, but three days ago, the infant failed to respond to emergency resuscitation…” The nurse hesitated, her voice trembling. “She’s dead.”
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