A TORRENT OF EMOTIONS

The nursery was dimly lit, awash in the soft glow of a single antique lamp. Its golden hue spilled across the floor like spilled honey. The walls, painted in calming shades of mint and ivory, were decorated with handpicked baby art and tiny gold-framed portraits—already installed by Mandy weeks before the child was born.

Andre lay in the pristine cradle at the center of the room. He stirred faintly, making a small, hiccuping sigh.

Mandy stood over him, stiff, quiet, like a statue pressed too close to glass.

Behind her, the nanny adjusted a basket of folded baby clothes on the side table. “Ma’am, should I warm his bottle now or—?”

“No,” Mandy said, her voice too sharp. Then she forced a smile, masking it. “Not yet. I’d like a moment alone with my son.”

The nanny paused. “Of course, ma’am. Call me if you need anything.”

As the door shut gently behind the woman, silence swept in like a tide. Mandy remained where she was, watching the child. Her hand slowly moved to her stomach, pressing against it.

Empty.

She sank onto the velvet rocking chair across from the cradle, trembling.

The ticking of the nursery clock sounded louder with each second. Andre gave another small cry—barely a mewl—but Mandy didn’t reach for him. Not yet. Her hands gripped the arms of the chair. Her eyes closed.

And then the memory returned—sharp, searing.

Three years ago. The sterile chill of the hospital. The sound of the monitor beeping steady as she woke from surgery.

Pedro had been there, distant and tired, standing stiffly at the edge of the room.

But the family doctor—Dr. Isaacs—had been the one to deliver the blow.

“We were able to remove the infected tissue,” he had said gently. “The procedure was successful. But… I’m sorry, Mrs. Perez. The damage was extensive. You won’t be able to conceive again.”

She had blinked at him, stunned. “There must be another way.”

“I’m afraid not.”

Her hands had shot to her stomach even then, instinctively. “You said this was just a cleansing procedure. I didn’t know this was the cost.”

“You agreed to everything, Mandy. You signed off. You were told.”

Pedro had not spoken once. He had simply stood there, his jaw set.

The words still burned her ears. “You won’t be able to conceive again.”

Mandy's chest hitched violently in the present.

She shot up from the chair, gripping her stomach as if pain lived there still. She crossed to the cradle and stared down at Andre. Her lips trembled.

“You’re not mine,” she whispered.

Andre blinked up at her, innocent, unknowing.

She backed away suddenly, eyes wild, and turned her face to the wall. Her hand slammed against the plaster.

“No, no, no…” The sound escaped her throat like a growl. She clenched her fists. “This wasn’t how I wanted this.”

Tears fell fast, silent at first, then choking.

Then the wail came.

It tore from her chest — raw and animal and ugly. She collapsed to her knees, hands dragging down her face, sobbing uncontrollably.

Outside the door, a thud.

“Ma’am?” the nanny called, knocking softly. “Is everything alright?”

Mandy didn’t respond. Her sobs grew louder, fiercer.

Another knock. This time sharper.

“Ma’am?”

The maids had gathered now. More knocks, more concerned voices. “Ma’am, do you want us to call for Mr. Perez?” “Is the baby okay?” “Should we come in?”

But Mandy only rocked herself on the nursery floor, shaking, unhearing.

Inside, her body twisted with grief and fury and disbelief. Not for the child — but for what had been stolen from her. What fate had robbed her of. What nature had denied her.

“I did everything right,” she muttered brokenly. “I played the perfect wife. I built the perfect image. I followed every goddamn rule…”

No answer came.

Only the baby’s faint gurgle, the ticking clock, and the desperate fists of the household tapping lightly on the door they dared not open.

It took hours before the sobbing quieted. Until her throat burned and no more sound would come.

Mandy lay there for a long time, face pressed to the cold floor, hair tangled, cheeks swollen with salt.

The door remained locked.

Eventually, she sat up.

The room was silent again.

Andre slept peacefully in the cradle, his small chest rising and falling with soft rhythm.

Mandy stared at him, wiped her face, and dragged herself up to her feet.

She crossed the room slowly, step by step.

Then she leaned over the cradle and studied him again.

“So this is how it’s going to be,” she whispered hoarsely.

The child didn’t stir.

Her voice was quieter now. Emotion still swelled under every syllable, but it was no longer chaos—it was control.

“I didn’t make you. But you’re here. And Pedro…” She swallowed. “Pedro gave you to me. For the world, you are mine.”

She brushed her finger lightly across Andre’s cheek.

“You don’t know anything yet. You don’t know whose arms held you first. You don’t know the girl who cried for you today. And you never will.” Her tone sharpened like glass. “Not if I can help it.”

She straightened.

Her eyes cleared.

“I will be your mother. I will raise you as a Perez. I will teach you how to win, how to rise, how to command. I’ll protect you—not for love. Not yet.” She smiled bitterly. “But because you are the only card I have left to keep my place.”

She glanced once more at the cradle.

“As long as you are beneficial to me in sustaining my place as wife to Pedro Perez, I’ll be a deserving mother to you.”

With a final look, Mandy turned and unlocked the door.

The nanny and two maids startled as it swung open.

Mandy’s eyes were puffy, red-rimmed. But her spine was straight, her voice calm.

“Tell Mr. Perez I’ll be keeping the child in my suite from now on. He is not to be taken back to the guesthouse. And bring me warm milk.”

She didn’t wait for their response.

She simply shut the door again.

Behind it, she stood in the quiet once more. Staring out the tall windows, her arms crossed tightly.

Her battle wasn’t over. She had lost her womb, but not her crown.

And now, she had a son — whether nature liked it or not.