The man who'd waited ten years for me was coming tomorrow.
Not just for a year. This time, I was never coming back.
1.
Ruth jabbed a manicured finger toward my daughter, gasping with theatrical horror.
"Oh my God, Cyril—no wonder she looked wrong to me. She's a bastard."
Her voice rang through the room, shrill and performative. One razor-sharp acrylic nail pressed into my baby's delicate cheek, leaving a tiny red mark.
"God, she's hideous. All wrinkled like a little old man." Ruth's lip curled. "They say daughters take after their fathers. Guess you're not picky, sis—you'll spread your legs for anyone."
Cyril's expression was ice. Distant. Like I was a stranger who'd wandered into his life by accident.
"Samantha. Since this child isn't a Sanchez, she doesn't deserve this room." His gaze swept over me without warmth. "Take your bastard and get out. Now."
I looked at Ruth—draped head to toe in Chanel couture, a single diamond on her stiletto worth more than a hundred nights in this VIP suite.
Then I looked at myself.
I'd been wheeled out of surgery alone. No nurse. No aide. Just me, still bleeding, holding my newborn with shaking arms.
A bitter laugh caught in my throat.