Just hours after my C-section, while the anesthesia was still numbing my body and my newborn twins lay against my chest, she burst into my private suite, a thick stack of papers in her hand.
“Sign immediately,” she ordered. “You don’t deserve to live like this. And you’re certainly incapable of raising two babies.”
The recovery room at St. Mary’s Medical Pavilion looked more like a luxury hotel than a medical facility. At my request, the nurses had discreetly removed the lavish floral arrangements sent by colleagues from the Attorney General’s office and several federal collaborators. I had tried hard to maintain the illusion of being a simple freelance home-based worker for my husband’s family. It was safer that way.
Beside me, my twins, Noah and Nora, slept peacefully. The emergency surgery had been excruciating, but holding them in my arms erased all the pain.
Suddenly, the door burst open.
Margaret Whitmore entered, enveloped in designer perfume and unbearable arrogance. Her gaze swept the room with obvious contempt.
“A private suite?” she sneered, tapping the hospital bed with the tip of her shoe. A sharp pain shot through my stomach. “My son works himself to exhaustion so you can lounge in silk sheets? You have no shame.”

part2