My Final Hours Before Birth Were Spent in Pain and in Betrayal

“Giving birth?” Adrian scoffed. “Did you care when Vivian went into premature labor?”

Without a word, several bodyguards stormed forward and dragged me from the car.

Amniotic fluid and blood mixed, dripping onto the concrete. The pain was unbearable; I could barely stand it.

“What are you doing? Let me go!”

Adrian didn’t respond. He simply pointed toward the car wash bay at the edge of the parking lot.

The bodyguards hauled me over. I thrashed and screamed, but a searing pain tore through my abdomen.

“Adrian! I’m really in labor! The baby’s coming!”

He raised a high-pressure water gun and aimed it at me.

“Celeste Quinn, you’ve lived a pampered life. You’ve never known real pain.”

The jet of icy water struck me like a fist.

“Ah!”

The near-freezing blast knocked me to the ground. Blood and amniotic fluid splattered across the floor, washed away in streaks.

I curled up, groaning, but two bodyguards pinned me down.

From the screen, Vivian’s voice cried out: “Adrian, stop! She’s pregnant. Don’t do this…”

“You’re still defending her?” Adrian’s rage exploded. He turned the nozzle to full power. “She caused your premature labor! The baby’s still in an incubator, fighting for his life! Her pain is nothing!”

The water slammed into me again. It felt like it would tear my skin open. I couldn’t breathe.

Soaked to the bone, my hair clung to my face. I was a mess.

“Stop… please… the baby’s coming…” I begged through chattering teeth.

Adrian’s eyes were ice: “Cut off her clothes.”

“No! Don’t!” I screamed in horror.

One bodyguard pulled out scissors and sliced through my maternity dress with a sharp hiss.

“Adrian! You’re insane!”

He looked down at me coldly. “Vivian was just as helpless in the rain, burning with fever. Now you know how it feels.”

The scissors kept tearing fabric.

The humiliation hit harder than the pain of labor.

A sharp cramp stabbed me. I reached for my pocket.

Thank God — the microlocator was still there.

This was my only chance.

I pressed the emergency button. Relief swept over me. My parents would get the signal. They’d come.

I just had to hold on—

“Celeste. What are you doing?”

Adrian’s voice sliced through the air.

He snatched the locator from my hand and crushed it.

“Trying to call for help? Clever.”

The pieces were scattered on the floor. I collapsed beside them, contractions intensifying.

I couldn’t just wait to die.

In college, I studied first aid and passed physiology with flying colors. Now, it was all I had.

I focused on my breathing, relaxing my body, and syncing with the rhythm of each wave of pain.

I could feel the baby descending.

The head had already begun to crown.

“Adrian, I really am giving birth!” I gritted my teeth and got bored.

Maybe — just maybe — I could do this alone.

Adrian’s face twisted when he realized.

From the screen, Vivian shrieked: “Adrian! I almost died from difficult labor! How can she give birth so easily?”

Jealousy and bitterness filled her voice.

Adrian nodded grimly, then waved someone forward. “Doctor, come here.”

That’s when I saw him: a middle-aged man in a white coat, holding a syringe.

Adrian gave the order, voice like ice: “If her labor’s that smooth — give her a tocolytic.”