Chapter 2
The blade touched my skin before I could scream.
Cold. Then hot. A line of fire dragged across my lower belly, just above the pubic bone.
I screamed so loud my throat tore. The sound bounced off the tile walls, came back at me like a slap.
"Hold her still!" Vivian's voice was sharp, annoyed. Like I was being difficult.
Hands clamped down on my shoulders. One of the fake nurses pressed my legs flat while the doctor worked. No hesitation. No mercy. Just efficiency.
The chat was exploding.
[WHAT THE FUCK]
[Is she awake?? IS SHE AWAKE??]
[This is so fake lmao no way this is real]
[Girl I don't think this is fake look at the blood]
I couldn't see past my own belly. But I could feel everything. Every layer he cut through. The pressure. The pulling. The wrongness of being opened up while my mind was clear and screaming.
"Vivian—" I choked on the words. "Please. Please just give me something for the pain. I'll do whatever you want."
She considered this. Actually tilted her head like she was thinking about it.
"No," she said simply. "I want you to feel it. I want you to feel what it's like to have something ripped out of you."
Then her voice got low, just for me.
"You took three years of his life, Elena. Three years he should've been with me. You think I'm going to let you sleep through the payback?"
Derek. She was talking about Derek.
My husband of four years. The man who slow-danced with me at our wedding, who cried when I told him I was pregnant, who rubbed my feet every night for the first trimester.
He knew about this. He planned this with her.
Another wave of pain crashed through me and I bit down so hard I cracked a molar. Blood filled my mouth.
The doctor was pulling now. I could feel my insides shifting, making room, the baby moving up and out.
And then—a cry.
Small, furious, perfect.
My daughter.
I couldn't see her. They held her up and away from me, and all I caught was a flash of dark hair, a tiny fist punching air.
"Give her to me." My voice broke. "Give me my baby."
Vivian took the baby. Held her up to the camera, beaming.
"She's here! Oh my God, she's perfect. Look at her little face."
The chat erupted in congratulations. Hearts. Fireworks. Gifts. Thousands of strangers celebrating Vivian's "miracle baby."
My baby. Screaming in a stranger's arms.
"Vivian, I swear to God—"
"Shh." She didn't even look at me. Just bounced my daughter gently, cooing into the camera. "Mommy's here. Mommy's got you."
The doctor was stitching me up without a word. Fast, rough, pulling the thread tight enough to make me gasp.
I was losing blood. I could feel it—the lightheaded warmth, the fading edges of my vision. They weren't monitoring me. Weren't replacing what I was losing.
They didn't care if I made it off this table.
My phone. Where was my phone?
Gone. Taken when they moved me. No way to call for help. No way to reach anyone.
Then I remembered something Vivian didn't know. Something Derek didn't know. Something nobody in this city knew.
My last name isn't really Elena Park.
And my father isn't really a dead construction worker from Ohio.
I forced my eyes to stay open. Forced my hands to stop shaking.
The camera was still rolling. Thousands of people watching.
Good.
I looked directly into the lens, blood on my lips, tears streaking down my temples.
"You're going to wish you killed me, Vivian."
She laughed.
The chat laughed with her.
They wouldn't be laughing for long.
Cold. Then hot. A line of fire dragged across my lower belly, just above the pubic bone.
I screamed so loud my throat tore. The sound bounced off the tile walls, came back at me like a slap.
"Hold her still!" Vivian's voice was sharp, annoyed. Like I was being difficult.
Hands clamped down on my shoulders. One of the fake nurses pressed my legs flat while the doctor worked. No hesitation. No mercy. Just efficiency.
The chat was exploding.
[WHAT THE FUCK]
[Is she awake?? IS SHE AWAKE??]
[This is so fake lmao no way this is real]
[Girl I don't think this is fake look at the blood]
I couldn't see past my own belly. But I could feel everything. Every layer he cut through. The pressure. The pulling. The wrongness of being opened up while my mind was clear and screaming.
"Vivian—" I choked on the words. "Please. Please just give me something for the pain. I'll do whatever you want."
She considered this. Actually tilted her head like she was thinking about it.
"No," she said simply. "I want you to feel it. I want you to feel what it's like to have something ripped out of you."
Then her voice got low, just for me.
"You took three years of his life, Elena. Three years he should've been with me. You think I'm going to let you sleep through the payback?"
Derek. She was talking about Derek.
My husband of four years. The man who slow-danced with me at our wedding, who cried when I told him I was pregnant, who rubbed my feet every night for the first trimester.
He knew about this. He planned this with her.
Another wave of pain crashed through me and I bit down so hard I cracked a molar. Blood filled my mouth.
The doctor was pulling now. I could feel my insides shifting, making room, the baby moving up and out.
And then—a cry.
Small, furious, perfect.
My daughter.
I couldn't see her. They held her up and away from me, and all I caught was a flash of dark hair, a tiny fist punching air.
"Give her to me." My voice broke. "Give me my baby."
Vivian took the baby. Held her up to the camera, beaming.
"She's here! Oh my God, she's perfect. Look at her little face."
The chat erupted in congratulations. Hearts. Fireworks. Gifts. Thousands of strangers celebrating Vivian's "miracle baby."
My baby. Screaming in a stranger's arms.
"Vivian, I swear to God—"
"Shh." She didn't even look at me. Just bounced my daughter gently, cooing into the camera. "Mommy's here. Mommy's got you."
The doctor was stitching me up without a word. Fast, rough, pulling the thread tight enough to make me gasp.
I was losing blood. I could feel it—the lightheaded warmth, the fading edges of my vision. They weren't monitoring me. Weren't replacing what I was losing.
They didn't care if I made it off this table.
My phone. Where was my phone?
Gone. Taken when they moved me. No way to call for help. No way to reach anyone.
Then I remembered something Vivian didn't know. Something Derek didn't know. Something nobody in this city knew.
My last name isn't really Elena Park.
And my father isn't really a dead construction worker from Ohio.
I forced my eyes to stay open. Forced my hands to stop shaking.
The camera was still rolling. Thousands of people watching.
Good.
I looked directly into the lens, blood on my lips, tears streaking down my temples.
"You're going to wish you killed me, Vivian."
She laughed.
The chat laughed with her.
They wouldn't be laughing for long.