Husband Tries to Kill His Heiress Wife

I floated in darkness, drifting between consciousness and oblivion. The steady beep of machines anchored me to reality—a reality I wasn't sure I wanted to return to. Something felt wrong. Something was missing.

When I finally opened my eyes, the harsh fluorescent lights of the ICU stabbed into my brain. White ceiling tiles came into focus above me, sterile and cold. My body felt hollow, emptied of something precious.

"BP stable," a nurse murmured somewhere to my left. "She's awake."

I tried to speak, but my throat felt raw, as if I'd been screaming for hours. Maybe I had been. I couldn't remember.

"Where's my baby?" I finally managed, my voice barely a whisper.

The room fell silent. Dr. Chen stepped forward, her dark eyes filled with a compassion that made my heart stutter. She clutched a clipboard to her chest like a shield.

"Gemma," she said softly, pulling a chair beside my bed. "I'm so sorry."

Something in her tone made my blood run cold. I reached instinctively for my stomach, finding it flatter than before. The emptiness I'd felt wasn't in my mind.

"No," I breathed. "No, please..."

"The blood loss was too severe," Dr. Chen continued, tears welling in her eyes. "We did everything we could, but..."

"But what?" I demanded, my voice rising. "But what happened to my baby?"

Dr. Chen's professional demeanor cracked. A tear slipped down her cheek. "I'm so sorry, Gemma. Your daughter didn't survive."

The world stopped. Everything—the beeping monitors, the antiseptic smell, the sunlight streaming through the window—everything vanished except for that single, devastating fact.

My daughter was gone.

A sound tore from my throat—primal, raw, guttural. It didn't seem human. It certainly didn't seem like me. But it was the only way to express the agony shredding my insides.

"My baby," I sobbed, clutching at my empty stomach. "My baby!"

I heard footsteps retreating, nurses murmuring in the hallway. Through tear-blurred vision, I saw Dr. Chen's hand covering her mouth as she backed away. The door closed softly, and I was alone with my grief.

Or so I thought.

Outside the door, I could hear muffled voices. Then came the unmistakable sound of someone crying—not me. The nurses were weeping in the hallway, unable to bear witness to my pain.

---

The next afternoon, Brady appeared in my doorway. I'd been staring at the ceiling for hours, numb and hollow.

"You're awake," he said, stepping into the room. No kiss. No embrace. Just a statement of fact.

I turned my head slightly, looking at him as if seeing a stranger. Perhaps I was.

"The hospital bills are going to be astronomical," he said, pulling a chair to the opposite side of the room—as far from me as possible. "And Dalia's been a wreck since the accident."

"Dalia," I repeated, the name bitter on my tongue.

"She feels terrible about bringing Snowball to the hospital." Brady checked his phone. "The cat's fine, by the way. Just needed stitches."

Something cold unfurled inside me. "Our daughter is dead."

He had the decency to look uncomfortable, but only briefly. "These things happen, Gemma. We can try again in a few months, once you're healed."

Try again. As if our baby had been a failed business venture.

"Did you hear me?" I whispered. "She's dead."

"I heard you." Brady stood up abruptly. "Look, I need to go. Dalia's waiting for me."

Of course she was.

"I'll come back tomorrow," he added, already moving toward the door. "The doctor said you need rest anyway."

Before I could respond, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, his expression changing instantly. "I have to take this."

And just like that, he was gone—leaving me alone in the darkening room.

---

Night fell. The hospital grew quiet except for the occasional squeak of rubber-soled shoes on linoleum and the soft murmur of the night shift staff.

I lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling. Brady wouldn't come back tonight. I knew that with absolute certainty.

Slowly, painfully, I pushed myself up. My body protested every movement, but determination drove me forward. There was something I needed to do—something I should have done years ago.

With trembling hands, I reached beneath my pillow where I'd hidden my emergency phone—the one Brady knew nothing about. The one connected to the life I'd left behind.

I dialed the number I'd memorized but never used.

One ring. Two rings.

"Hello?" The voice was deep, commanding—and achingly familiar.

"Trace," I whispered, my voice breaking. "It's me."

A sharp intake of breath. "Gemma? What's happened?"

"They killed my baby, Trace." The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "I need you. I need the family."

Silence stretched between us—three years of separation compressed into a single, terrible moment.

"I'm coming," he finally said. "Hold on, Gemma. I'm coming."

As I clutched the phone to my chest, I realized something fundamental had shifted inside me. The woman who had entered this hospital—naive, trusting, desperate to be loved—was gone forever.