The Disposable Wife's Unexpected Comeback

The elevator doors slid open with a soft sound.

Enola Alford stepped out, one hand instinctively stroking the bulge of her nine-month belly, while the other tightly gripped the handle of a thermal lunch box. She spent an entire morning carefully simmering beef stew, the rich aroma wafting from the lunchbox, a small yet warm promise in the sterile cold air of Knight Industrial's executives.

Her steps were slow and heavy, stepping on the soft gray carpet as she walked down the long corridor. Hope trembled in her chest like a fragile bird, and she desperately wanted to protect it. Today, she was going to break through his indifference. This meal, this small act of love, will be a beginning.

She walked up to the grand double doors of his office. The door is made of dark, heavy oak, seemingly able to absorb all sound and light. But today, one of the doors was slightly open, and a faint light pierced through the dim hallway.

She laughed. He must have known she was coming.

When she raised her hand to push the door, she froze. His voice came from within—low, with a chilling calm. It wasn't the voice he usually spoke to her—that brief, impatient tone. This is different. Colder.

"Terms are non-negotiable." Sterling said. "She gets nothing. Not a single cent, not even a stock certificate. She signed the papers and then left. ”

Enola's hand hovered in midair, just inches from the wooden door. Her breath was stuck in her throat.

A deep voice came from the speakerphone, carrying a metallic tone—it was the lawyer answering. "Mr. Knight, considering Mrs. Knight's current ...... Condition...... She could give birth at any moment. Maybe take a more ...... A tactful way? ”

A dry, amused laugh came from the office. That voice made the blood in Enola's veins freeze.

"Child, stay." Sterling's voice was devoid of emotion. "The child belongs to the Knight family. This woman is someone you can abandon. Make sure this is clearly stated in the agreement. ”

"You can throw them away." That word hit Enola like a heavy punch. Her legs went weak. She leaned against the cold wall to support herself, and the weight in her belly suddenly became unbearable.

Then, the tone of his voice changed—melting from the harsh Arctic cold into something like warmth. That was the tone she hadn't heard him use on her in years.

"I have to go, Juliana." He said softly. "Yes, it's almost over...... I promise. Mrs. Night's position will be yours. Very soon. ”

Juliana.

This name sounded the death knell.

The insulated lunchbox slipped from Enola's numb fingers. It didn't break; instead, it landed on the thick carpet with a dull, nauseating thud—the sound of a broken heart.

At that very moment, a sharp pain she had never felt before tore at her abdomen. It was a sharp, tearing sensation that made it hard for her to breathe, and black dots began to throb before her eyes. She screamed, letting out a choked, hoarse sound. Her legs went weak, and she gripped her stomach tightly. She slid down the wall, her designer dress piled up around her, the polished marble floor chilling against her skin.

The office door was suddenly flung open.

Sterling Knight stood there, his figure bathed in the bright light of the office, forming a silhouette. He looked down at her, his handsome face showing no worry, only pure, undisguised anger. His eyes were as gray-blue as the winter sky, nothing but his displeasure at being disturbed by the cold.

"Save ...... Save me. Enola was panting, her voice almost inaudible. Sweat beads congealed on her forehead, sticking a few strands of hair to her face. She reached out a trembling hand to him, a gesture of desperation and pleading.

He deliberately stepped aside, avoiding her touch, as if she were something unclean. This refusal hurt her even more than the contractions tearing apart her.

He took out his phone, his thumb moving quickly and efficiently. "Caleb." He didn't even glance at her as he spoke. "Bring medical staff to senior management. My ...... wife and children...... It seems to have flared up. ”

He slammed his phone shut. Then, the phone rang again. He turned his back to her, walked back to his office, and half-closed the door.

"Juliana?" Sorry. Just a small disturbance. ”

Enola lay on the cold floor, left alone in the dim corridor. Waves of pain surged over her, each wave stronger than the last, dragging her into the abyss. Hot, silent tears streamed from the corners of her eyes, leaving traces in the sweat on her temples. It wasn't tears of pain, but a thorough, heartbreaking despair.

The sirens grew closer, like the backdrop of her apocalypse. When medical staff arrived, they found her nearly unconscious, repeatedly murmuring a single word.

"Escape."

The lighting in the operating room was dazzling. They burned Enola's retina, a sterile, merciless white. She lay on a stretcher, hurriedly pushed through the corridors of Manhattan's most luxurious private hospital. The pain burned inside her, roaring like flames.

"The fetal heart rate is dropping!" A voice shouted. "We must get them out of here now!"

She was pushed into a cold, tiled room. A man with kind eyes and a stern mouth leaned over her. Dr. Fletcher Harding. An old friend from long ago, before Stirling.

Enola's hand suddenly reached out, grabbing the sleeve of his surgical gown, so strong that even she didn't realize it. Her nails dug deep into the fabric.

"Fletcher." She said hoarsely, her throat burning with pain. "He wants to take my child away. Don't let him succeed. Please...... Save my child. Help me. Take me out of this hell. ”

The despair and primal fear in her eyes struck him. What he saw was not the wife of a billionaire, but a trapped beast. He nodded decisively and forcefully.

"I will." He promised.

Emergency C-section surgery is ready. A mask was placed on her face, but she resisted the anesthesia—she needed to stay awake, to be sure. The scalpel cut her skin, and a sharp, pulling sensation made her bite her lip, her mouth tasting blood.

A faint cry broke the tense silence.

"It's a boy." Fletcher announced. He quickly, almost secretly, handed the swaddled baby to a trusted nurse, who then left the room.

But that tugging and pulling feeling continued. Confusion rippled in Enola's pain-blurred mind.

Then, another cry—this time weaker, more fragile.

Twins.

"The second one is dangerous." Someone said anxiously. "I'm out of oxygen. Send him to the neonatal intensive care unit immediately! ”

Just as the second baby was hastily taken away, the world began to spin. The steady beep from Enola's head monitor escalated into a wild, sharp alarm.

"She bleed heavily!" We're about to lose her! ”

The room instantly descended into controlled chaos. Alarms blared, orders echoed one after another, and blood was everywhere.

Amidst the chaos, Fletcher acted with a calm purpose. He gave a stern order, demanding a blood bag—but the one he was referring to wasn't the one the nurse had brought. Another intravenous infusion line was attached, but the composition of the fluid inside was unknown. He was planning an unusual rescue.

A nurse quietly handed him a form clipped to the writing board. He signed.

The red light above the operating room door finally went out.

Sterling Knight stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall, a cigar unlit between his fingers. He didn't pace back and forth, just waiting, as if waiting for a delayed business deal to finally be completed.

Fletcher Harding stepped forward and took off the surgical mask from his face. His expression was one of carefully disguised exhaustion and regret.

"Mr. Knight." He said softly. "We did our best. Some ...... have appeared. Unexpected complications. I'm sorry. We couldn't save her. ”

Sterling's gray eyes flickered. His pupils contracted by a hundredth of a second. The fingers holding the cigar tightened—this was the only sign of his reaction. But his face was still blank. No sadness, no shock, only ...... Dead silence.

"We saved one of the children." Fletcher added calmly. "It's a boy. He was in the neonatal intensive care unit. The situation is currently stable. ”

Sterling walked up to the large glass window of the neonatal intensive care unit. Through the glass, he looked at the small, fragile baby inside the incubator—the little one's tiny body was tangled with tangled wires and tubes. He stared coldly for a long time, his expression hard to read.

Then, he turned and left.

"Caleb handles the paperwork." He said to his assistant, who suddenly appeared beside him. "Death certificate. All of it. ”

He walked down the corridor, away from the neonatal intensive care unit, away from the operating room of the woman who had just "died" and had given birth to his child. He never looked back even once.

A few hours later, late at night, the hospital was silent.

Fletcher pushed a stretcher covered with white sheets through an empty corridor, his rubber-soled shoes making no sound. He took a service elevator down to the underground loading area—a place filled with the smell of disinfectant and decay.

He pushed the stretcher to the back of a waiting, unmarked black sedan.

The white sheets moved.

Enola sat up. Her face was pale, her appearance emaciated, and she was unbelievably weak, with an intravenous IV tube still taped to her arm. But she is still alive. In her arms, wrapped in a hospital blanket, was a sleeping baby—her son. Adrian.

The tears she couldn't have shed before now silently and endlessly streamed down her face. She looked from Fletcher at the child in her arms, her expression mixed with deep gratitude and heartbreaking grief—for the child she had to abandon, the child she thought she would lose forever.

Fletcher helped her into the back seat. He stuffed a thick stack of cash and a passport under a new name into her hands.

"Let's go." He said softly. "Don't look back. He will never find you. ”

The car door clicked shut with a gentle click. The car drove away from the roadside, its headlights going out, blending into the drizzling night of New York.

Enola Alford died. In its place, a new person is being born.