I clutched my waist with both hands, trembling from the pain. Before I could catch my breath, one of Mariam’s bodyguards grabbed me and hauled me toward the exit.
I shoved the paper into my bra.
The corridor outside the operating room went silent as the doors closed, cutting off the world.
Mariam leaned weakly against Charlton’s chest, sobbing until her tears fell like spring rain. He held her, his brow knitted tight.
There they stood—locked in each other’s arms—performing a scene for everyone: a devoted couple, bereft of their child.
I pressed my back against the cold wall and let a bitter, ironic smile tug at my lips.
This is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous!
Everyone was calling me a cruel mother, accusing me of killing a child.
Yet Mariam, to frame me, had coaxed her own son into drinking milk laced with something.
The so-called motherly love in her eyes was nothing more than a weapon.
What was even more absurd was how badly Charlton’s clumsy lies had already unraveled. That child was clearly Mariam’s blood!
A suffocating ache swelled in my chest. I suddenly remembered a scene from five years ago—the day I had accidentally seen Mariam forcibly kiss Charlton.