My Husband Framed Me After Childbirth,Now He’s Begging a Grave for Forgiveness

The moment she threw herself into the pool, they forced the labor-inducing injection into my veins.

Cyril wiped the tears from the corners of my eyes, his voice gentle. "Samantha, she's my only sister. She's young, she gets jealous easily. I need to put her mind at ease. You understand, don't you?"

"Once the baby's born, I'll make it up to you both. Mother and daughter."

"Don't worry. I've got you."

But what came instead was a forged DNA test. A crude, theatrical performance staged for my daughter and me.

Two bodyguards blocked the doorway now, discomfort flickering across their faces—but they held their ground.

"We're sorry, ma'am. Mr. Sanchez gave strict orders before he left. You can't leave until the debt is paid."

In my arms, my daughter had become a furnace in the span of minutes. Her cries were weakening, each whimper fainter than the last.

I was seconds from pressing a blade to my own throat to force them aside when Cyril appeared, his brow furrowed, his expression thunderous.

"Samantha." His voice cut like ice. "This is a hospital, not a street market. All this screaming—did you forget every shred of decorum the Sanchez name should have taught you?" His jaw tightened. "You've disturbed Ruth while she's having her finger treated."

My gaze followed his gesture.

That's when I saw it: a Hello Kitty band-aid wrapped around Ruth's fingertip.

And behind her—over twenty doctors. Trailing after her like an entourage.

Something inside me cracked open.

No wonder no one came when I called. Not a single doctor.

He'd summoned every last one of them for a cut on her finger.

I swallowed the acid rising in my throat and stepped forward, my daughter clutched to my chest. My voice broke. "Nora has a fever. Please—call a doctor."

Cyril's frown deepened. He shifted his weight, about to move—

Ruth doubled over, clutching her abdomen, her voice a silken whimper. "Cyril... it hurts so much. Am I dying?"

His attention snapped to her instantly.

In one fluid motion, he swept her into his arms and barked at the wall of white coats: "Prepare for surgery. Now."

I grabbed his arm, desperate. "Our daughter—"

But Ruth had already wound her arms around his neck, her face buried against his throat.

"I'm so scared," she breathed. "They're going to cut out a piece of me. Will it hurt? Will I die?"

She lifted her head just enough to peer up at him through wet lashes. "Can you have all the doctors in the operating room? The more, the safer, right?" Her lip trembled. "My only regret in this life is never properly repaying everything you've done for me. I don't want to die with that debt unpaid."

Every word dripped honey.

And Cyril—Cyril melted like candle wax.

"Of course." His voice softened to something I hadn't heard in months. "I'll have every doctor in this hospital on standby. The Elite Medical Unit will arrive in ten minutes. I won't let anything happen to you. Not a scratch."

"What about our daughter?"

My knuckles had gone bone-white around her tiny body. I'd bitten through my lip; I tasted copper.

Every doctor on standby for her. Then who saves our child?

Cyril glanced at the bundle in my arms. Irritation flashed across his features.

He turned to the crowd of physicians. "Which one of you is pediatrics? Stay behind. Take a look."

"Cyril," Ruth cooed from the cradle of his arms, "hospitals charge for consultations, you know. And Samantha still owes us eight hundred eighty thousand dollars." A smile curled her lips—saccharine for him, venomous for me. "But for the sake of three years as sisters-in-law, I suppose I could lower myself to help."

Her eyes glittered.

"I'm losing a piece of myself today. She can keep me company."

At her signal, a bodyguard kicked over the medical waste bin.

Needles scattered across the floor. Dozens of them. The fluorescent light caught their tips—cold, sharp, glinting.

Ruth looked down at me from Cyril's arms, chin lifted like a queen passing sentence.

"Pick them all up. Do that, and I'll cover your consultation fee."

Cyril's gaze slid over me—brief, dismissive.

He turned to his assistant. "Do as she says."

Then he strode toward the operating room, Ruth cradled against his chest, and didn't look back.

Not once.