I grabbed the phone and called the doctor. “Give me another dose of that labor inhibitor! I need more right now!”
His face went pale. “Ma’am, you can’t keep delaying! It’s dangerous—you have to deliver. Your life is at risk!”
I bit down on my screams and braced myself to argue—but before I could say it again, Sullivan’s men stormed in.
One grabbed my arms. Another took my legs. They lifted me like a rag doll and dragged me from the hospital bed.
Behind us, the doctor frantically shouted, “Her vitals are dropping! If you take her away now, she could bleed out! That’s three lives at risk!”
But they didn’t give a damn. Not a bit. They hauled me straight to the press conference hall like some kind of animal.
All of Sullivan’s mistresses were already there—some with swollen bellies, some barely showing.
Then, without warning, his men injected us with fast-acting labor-inducing drugs.
The room descended into chaos. Agony echoed off the walls. The air filled with the sharp, metallic stench of blood. Women cried out, clutching their bellies, collapsing one by one.