He didn’t speak.
Didn’t pause.
Didn’t look down long enough to see the tears that leaked despite Rebecca’s discipline.
And above them, on the second floor balcony overlooking the atrium, Patricia Mitchell appeared like a queen arriving to watch a public execution.
She held up her phone.
Recording.
Rebecca could see Patricia’s mouth moving, narrating, performing. Her eyes glittered with triumph.
Rebecca’s stomach clenched, and not from labor.
Patricia was filming her suffering like it was entertainment.
“Mrs. Mitchell,” the nurse pushing the wheelchair said urgently, “we need to get you upstairs right now. Your baby is coming too early. We need to try to stop labor.”
Rebecca’s gaze remained fixed on James’s back as he walked away with Elena, unbothered, unashamed, as if abandoning a pregnant woman in distress was simply… scheduling.
The last thin thread of hope in Rebecca snapped.
Not dramatically.
Quietly.
Like a wire cut clean.
“Take me up,” Rebecca said, her voice steadier than it had any right to be. Another contraction rolled through her and she swallowed it like a secret. “But first… contact Dr. Raymond Chen in administration.”
The nurses exchanged confused looks. “We have to move, ma’am.”
“Tell him,” Rebecca continued, “Rebecca Montgomery needs him immediately. Use my full name.”
Silence.
Then the head nurse, Dorothy, an older woman with thirty years of hospital history in her eyes, went very still.
“Montgomery,” Dorothy repeated, as if tasting a word that didn’t belong in this corridor.
Rebecca nodded once. “I’m the new owner.”
