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

I knelt on the ground, sweeping my hands across the floor, groping blindly.

Within minutes, all ten fingers were riddled with puncture wounds—skin shredded, blood streaming down my wrists. Not an inch of flesh left intact.

But Nora's cries were growing weaker.

I had no choice. I stuck out my tongue and began to lick the floor, searching for needles by taste.

Half an hour later, I cupped a handful of bloodied needles and looked up at the doctor. When I spoke, blood kept welling from my mouth, spilling down my chin.

"They're all here. Please... save my daughter..."

The words left me, and so did consciousness. I collapsed.

When I woke, the sharp tang of disinfectant filled my nose.

Instinctively, I reached out—but my arms found only empty sheets. No warm little body. No soft breath against my skin.

"Nora..."

I staggered out of bed and lurched toward the Doctor's Office, bare feet slapping against cold linoleum. Through the window, I spotted her—my daughter, cradled in the arms of the female doctor who had treated her last night.

Dr. Hazel Grant rocked Nora gently, feeding her from a bottle. Her eyes were soft with pity.

"What a sin," she murmured. "Born a legitimate heiress, and yet because of that sister's jealousy, she can't even have her own mother's milk. The poor little thing."

Her colleague leaned in, voice dropping low.

"You're telling me. And get this—the paternity test? Mr. Sanchez personally supervised the forgery. The plan is to pin it on the hospital in a year, claim we made the mistake, and use that to coax the mother and daughter back. He threw millions at us to play along with this charade. Rich people and their games, honestly."

"Oh, that's nothing." Dr. Grant's voice turned conspiratorial. "I heard the sister is only adopted. Anyone with eyes can see she's got her sights set on her own brother. Last night during my rounds, I saw her—watched her kiss Mr. Sanchez right on the mouth while he was asleep. Five minutes later, he woke up." She paused meaningfully. "Didn't say a single word."

The two women exchanged knowing looks, lips curling with unspoken judgment.

I sagged against the wall, eyes burning until they ached.

Ruth Sanchez was the Sanchez family's adopted daughter. Because they were siblings in name, every time I showed even a flicker of jealousy, I became the unreasonable one—the woman trying to tear apart a brother and sister's innocent bond.

All Cyril had to do was raise an eyebrow and say, "If it were really as sordid as you imagine, I'd have married her already. You think you'd have had a chance?"

And I would fall silent. Every time.

He was right, wasn't he?

He was the heir to the richest family in the city—untouchable, godlike. And I was just a nine-to-five nobody, punching a clock and scraping by.

So why had he sent me tens of thousands of roses?

Why had he held my hand through the darkest nights after I lost my family, patient and steady when I couldn't stop crying?

Why had he personally dealt with the supervisor who made lewd comments about me at work?

And when that car came barreling toward us—why had he wrapped his body around mine, shielding me so completely that he was the one who ended up in the ICU?

I still remembered our wedding day. The way he'd raised his hand to the heavens and sworn:

"Samantha, I will love you and cherish you for the rest of my life. I will never betray you."

But hearts change in a heartbeat. And "forever" was just something people said to make the moment feel real.

When I looked up again, Cyril was standing in front of me.

I didn't know how long he'd been there.

His eyes met mine—bloodshot, hollow, bruised with exhaustion—and for once, something like concern flickered across his face.

"You just gave birth. Why aren't you resting in bed?"

The scent of Ruth's perfume clung to him, thick and cloying.

It hit my stomach like a fist. I nearly retched.

I stepped back, avoiding his reaching hand.

"You wanted a divorce, didn't you?" My voice came out flat. Dead. "Let's sign it. Now."

Cyril went still.

For a few seconds, he just stared at me. Then his expression hardened, and a cold, mocking smile twisted his lips.

"Samantha, don't be stupid. You don't have a cent to your name. Leave me, and you'll be sleeping on the street tonight—you and that baby both."

I lifted my gaze to meet his. Held it.

"The baby isn't yours anyway," I said, ice in every syllable. "Why do you care?"

The mockery hit its mark.

Cyril's face contorted—Loss control, reached for the fury beneath it. He snatched the divorce papers from his assistant's hands and signed with such force the pen nearly tore through the page.

I reached for the document to add my own signature, but before the ink could dry—

He ripped it from my grasp.

"Ungrateful bitch."

He jabbed a finger toward the hospital entrance, veins bulging at his temple.

"Get out. Get out of my hospital. Now."