I couldn't watch him suffer. To protect his pride, I'd contacted the hospital as an "anonymous donor" and covered every bill since.
Without my money, would he have lived so comfortably? Would he have had the leisure to flirt with our neighbor while I carried his child?
A cold smile touched my lips.
"Jack, tell the hospital to cut the funding too. Jackson Abbott's medical bills are Rhys's problem now."
Moments after giving the order, contractions seized me. I was wheeled into the delivery room, the doors swinging shut on my old life.
An hour later, I emerged.
When I drifted back to consciousness, my family stood guard around the bed. My mother sat close, gripping my hand.
I looked at their concerned faces, then down at the bassinet. My daughter slept there—a tiny, perfect bundle.
For the first time in months, I smiled. Genuinely. The future finally looked bright.
Then the shouting started.
"Lettie! Open the door!" Rhys's voice, muffled but unmistakable. "I'm the father! You can't keep me from my child!"
Jack bristled, fists curling. "That son of a bitch. We already told him to get lost."
He stepped toward the door. "If he doesn't leave, I'm knocking his teeth out."