My Fake Husband Searched the World to Find Me

When I returned to the hospital room, I ran into Kylian—cradling the baby. His face was filled with anxious desperation as he searched for me.

“Amber, where did you go?” he hurriedly asked.

“I just went up to the rooftop to get some air...”

Before I could finish, Kylian cut me off sharply.

“You haven’t even finished your postpartum recovery! How could you go out and catch a chill? How long were you up there?”

He was trying to probe—trying to figure out whether I'd overheard anything.

“I didn’t stay long. Halfway up, I felt weak and came back.”

Upon hearing that, Kylian visibly relaxed, the tension draining from his shoulders.

“Honey, it doesn’t matter if the baby isn’t mine. As long as you gave birth to him, I’ll love him as my own. Don’t let it weigh on your heart, okay?”

He held the baby naturally, then gently pulled me into his embrace, as if we were just a blissful little family of three.

But all I could feel, looking at the child I nearly died bringing into this world, was a crushing, suffocating pain—as if invisible hands were squeezing my heart.

The baby began to cry, and Kylian hurriedly tugged me toward the hospital bed.

“Honey, our son is hungry. Hurry and feed him.”

His expression was full of tender concern. If I hadn’t known the truth, I might have been moved completely by this display of affection.

But it was all an act! Everything was fake!

“Just give him formula,” I said coldly. “I’m still recovering.”

I was done being used as a vessel, drained of flesh and blood for someone else’s benefit.

Kylian looked stunned, then hastily tried to place the baby in my arms.

“Honey, this is your baby. I feel bad enough seeing him hungry—how could you be so heartless and give him formula? Didn’t you say before you wanted to breastfeed until he weaned naturally?”

If this child were truly mine, I could never be so cruel.

But he wasn’t. He was Felicity’s child—a product of Kylian’s manipulations.

I took a deep breath and said flatly, “This isn’t my child.”

Kylian froze, thinking I was rejecting the baby just because he wasn’t biologically mine. He rushed to explain, “How many times do I have to tell you? I want this child. Even if you have wronged me, I still accept him. Why are you being so dramatic?”

He was getting more and more skilled at gaslighting me—pinning me to the pillar of infidelity and guilt again and again.

Before I could even scoff, he twisted the knife deeper. “Besides, you don’t even have a uterus anymore. Kiran is the only child we’ll ever have.”

The name struck me like a blow. Kiran.

It was the name we’d chosen together—after poring through dictionaries, arguing and laughing through long nights, we finally chose Kiran that means ray of light. Moreover, it sounded like Kylian's name as well.

I hesitated, retreating a step, unable to bring myself to take the baby.

He immediately began to wail, shrill and desperate.

That ten-month bond between mother and child tugged at my soul. No matter how much I tried to steel myself, I couldn’t leave him crying like that. Inhaling sharply, I relented and took him into my arms.

But my body and mind were wracked with unbearable pain. No matter how hard Kiran latched, he couldn’t draw a single drop. He was so hungry, and didn’t even have the strength to cry.

Kylian’s face darkened with frustration as he grabbed his phone and barked at his assistant.

“Why the hell isn’t the lactation specialist here yet?”

Just then, Mauricio stepped into the room, trembling as he stammered an apology.

I lay silently in the hospital bed, tears streaming down my cheeks.

I never imagined that after enduring the torment of dilation, a cesarean that cut through eight layers of flesh, and brushing past death itself, I’d still be expected to let silver needles pierce my chest—just to feed another woman’s child.

The needle in the specialist’s hand gleamed faintly, fine as a strand of hair. The sight of it made me tremble violently—just like when anesthesia fails and every nerve screams in protest.

I shook so hard the acupuncturist couldn’t proceed and tried to soothe me instead.

“Acupuncture is the quickest way. Just hold on a little. Being a mother means enduring pain.”

But fear and instinctive rejection had overtaken me. I couldn’t stop my body from convulsing.

Helpless, I looked toward Kylian—out of habit—hoping he would step in.