Blurb：
When Alina Carmichael’s childbirth turns catastrophic under Nurse Maren Lowe’s malicious hands, her surgeon husband Dr. Kieran Foley prioritizes protecting his prodigy intern over their dying son. As Alina uncovers Maren’s calculated sabotage and Kieran’s chilling infidelity, she’s thrust into a nightmare of hospital cover-ups, coerced confessions, and humiliating public torment. Bleeding and betrayed, Alina weaponizes SD card evidence of Maren’s fatal delivery-room assault and Kieran’s conspiracy—but revenge demands sacrificing everything. A visceral tale of medical corruption, twisted mentorship, and a mother’s ruthless climb from sacrificial wife to ice-cold avenger.
Content：
§01Push, Alina, one more big push.
The voice was distant, a muffled sound beneath the roaring in my own ears.
Sweat pasted my hair to my temples, my back arching off the delivery table in a wave of agony that felt less like birth and more like being torn in two.
My husband, Dr. Kieran Foley, stood near my head, his hand a cool, clinical weight on my shoulder.
"You're doing great, Ali," he murmured, his voice the same calm, measured tone he used with his patients at Aethelgard University Hospital.
But his eyes weren't on me.
They were on her.
Maren Lowe, the doe-eyed nurse intern from his department, the one he insisted was a "prodigy" who needed this delivery for her final credits.
His little protégée.
"I can't," I gasped, the muscles in my stomach clenching uselessly.
"Something's wrong."
"Nothing is wrong," Kieran said, his fingers tightening slightly.
"Maren knows what she's doing. Breathe."
But Maren wasn't watching the monitors.
She wasn't listening to the senior midwife's instructions.
She was smiling, a tight, almost predatory curve of her lips as she leaned in.
"Come on, Alina," she chirped, her voice a sickly sweet counterpoint to the sterile beeping of the machines.
"Don't be a baby. Your baby needs you to work for it."
Then, against the midwife’s sharp cry of "Wait!", Maren's hands plunged down.
She didn't guide.
She didn't support.
She grabbed.
A brutal, wrenching pull that ripped a scream from my throat so raw it scraped my soul.
Fire, white-hot and blinding, tore through me.
I felt a sickening tear, a severing deep inside that had nothing to do with childbirth.
Then, a small, fragile body was being hoisted into the air.
My son.
His right arm dangled at an unnatural angle, bloodied and mangled.
A faint, gurgling cry escaped his lips, a sound so weak it was almost lost in the sudden, frantic shouting of the other staff.
But Maren wasn't done.
The umbilical cord was wrapped loosely around his neck.
A common, easily fixed complication.
I saw her fingers, nimble and sure, tighten around it.
She pulled, just for a second, her eyes locked on mine, that same terrifying smile playing on her lips.
The gurgling stopped.
The world went silent.
My son, who had been in the world for less than ten seconds, was gone.
And my husband, my brilliant surgeon husband, just squeezed my shoulder again.
"It's okay, Ali," he whispered, as chaos erupted around us.
"These things happen."
§02
The police station felt colder than the hospital.
The air conditioning hummed a monotonous, indifferent tune, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside me.
I sat on a hard plastic chair, the phantom weight of a baby I would never hold pressing down on my chest.
Kieran sat beside me, his arm draped around my shoulders in a mockery of comfort.
He had been the one to insist we come, to "clear the air" after I'd started screaming, accusing, demanding someone call the police from my hospital bed.
"My wife is in shock," he told the tired-looking detective, a man named Russo.
"She's just gone through a traumatic experience. She's not thinking clearly."
I flinched away from his touch.
"He died, Kieran. She killed him."
The words were a raw, ragged whisper.
Kieran sighed, a sound of pure, theatrical patience.
"Alina, please. It was a tragedy. A complication. Maren is devastated."
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The End