His Secretary Took My Room — I Left Him with the Baby

After three days in the hospital, I could finally get out of bed.

In all that time, Daniel Reed’s name only came up in the nurses’ idle chatter—he had spent nearly every moment in Sophie Lane’s VIP ward, even personally watching over her bird’s nest soup as it simmered.

The morning of my discharge, sunlight streamed brightly through the window. I had just finished packing my small bag when the door to my room swung open.

Daniel stood in the doorway holding a gaudy bouquet of red roses, looking awkward. “You… you’re leaving today?”

I didn’t look up. My fingers slid across my phone screen, eyes fixed on the message from my lawyer: The case against Daniel Reed and Sophie Lane for intentional injury has been officially filed.

At the sound of his voice, I only gave a faint “Mm.”

He stepped closer, his eyes flicking to my phone. “What are you looking at?”

Before I could respond, he snatched the phone from my hands. The screen had just gone dark.

“You’ve even set a password? What could you possibly be hiding from me?”

Leaning back against the bedframe, I let a cold smile tug at my lips as I watched him try to unlock it. “The password is my birthday.”

His fingers froze, then tapped in a few digits. The phone lit up with Incorrect Password in red.

He frowned, tried again, and failed once more. On the third attempt, the screen displayed Locked for 15 minutes.

Embarrassment flashed across his face, quickly hardening into irritation. “Claire Whitmore, you did that on purpose! Your birthday is—”

He stopped short. Clearly, he couldn’t remember the exact date. Three years of marriage, and he couldn’t recall my birthday—but he knew every one of Sophie Lane’s preferences by heart.

He tossed the phone back to me, his tone impatient. “You’re just looking for trouble. I came here to take you home, and this is the attitude I get?”

Before I could answer, his own phone rang. On the screen, two bright characters spelled “Sophie.”

“Daniel, the contract signing ceremony is about to start,” Sophie’s syrupy voice cooed through the speaker. “Mr. Whitmore and the others are here—when will you get here?”

Daniel’s tone softened instantly, dripping with sweetness. “I’ll be there soon. Be good and wait for me.”

When the call ended, he didn’t spare me a glance. Grabbing his jacket, he headed for the door. “I’m going to the ceremony. You can discharge yourself and take a cab home. We’ll talk later.”

The door closed behind him, and with it, the last flicker of warmth in my heart. Home? That place filled with false memories had long ceased to be mine.

I picked up my suitcase, walked to the window, and watched his figure hurry down the steps. Pulling out my phone, I sent a message to my lawyer: Handle the divorce and injury cases in full. Also… deliver two gifts to the signing ceremony.

Then I texted the subsidiary’s director: You can withdraw the investment now.

Half an hour later, I stepped out into the warm sunlight.

Daniel Reed—goodbye forever.

My sweet daughter, Mommy has avenged you.

At the signing ceremony, Daniel adjusted his tie with confidence while Sophie clung to his arm, her belly slightly rounded.

Just as the host was about to announce the start, a courier walked straight to Daniel.

“Mr. Reed? A gift from Ms. Claire Whitmore.”

The first envelope, embossed in gold, was handed over. Daniel tore it open curiously—only for the words Divorce Agreement to leap out at him. His face drained of color. He glanced sharply toward the doors, but I was nowhere in sight.

The second, a plain brown envelope, came next. Inside lay the icy weight of paper: Death Certificate—my daughter’s name printed above a black-and-white photo that stabbed like a knife.

His hands trembled. His lips moved soundlessly, a flicker of panic finally breaking through his composure.

“Daniel, ignore it! The signing is what matters,” Sophie urged, squeezing his arm and forcing a smile for the cameras. “She’s just trying to cause trouble. We’ll deal with it after the contract is signed.”

Daniel took a deep breath, crumpling both documents and shoving them into his suit pocket. Yes—so what if she left? He still had Sophie, her unborn child, and the Whitmore deal that was about to be his. That would make up for everything.

He smiled again and reached for the pen on the table. But just as the tip touched the contract, his phone shrilled.

One glance at the caller ID: the general manager of the Whitmore Group Subsidiary.

My third “gift” had arrived.