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.
“Marina, a little more grit on those plates, please!” Margie’s voice cut through the clatter of dishes like a bell at the start of a shift.Marina Pierce didn’t look up from the sink. Her arms ached from hours of scouring grease and stacking heavy plates. “Yes, ma’am,” she replied, forcing cheer into her tone. “Right away.”Margie Hawk, owner of Margie’s Diner, wasn’t known for patient kindness, but she paid on time. That was all Marina could ask for. She scrubbed at the rim of a chipped coffee cup until the last ring of syrup vanished. Steam fogged her vision; her back protested every bend; hunger gnawed in her belly. But she kept moving.At six-thirty in the morning, Margie’s was already alive with breakfast regulars. A thumping rock station crackled from speakers, mingling with the hiss of the grill, the swoosh of the soda fountain, and the murmur of conversation. Waitresses in red uniforms darted between tables, balancing stacks of pancakes and eggs, while the cook hollered orders
Mandy’s laughter had barely died on her lips when the first wail shattered the drawing room. She’d been presiding over a small gathering of potential social allies—heiresses and society matrons draped in silk and jewels—when the sound cut through the polite clinking of champagne glasses like a knife. Heads turned, delicate chatter halted, and Mandy froze mid-smile, as though she’d been struck.She rose abruptly. “Excuse me,” she said, voice too bright, too forced. She laid a hand on the back of her chair—an anchor in the storm of her own making—and slipped from the room, leaving clusters of guests staring at one another in startled confusion.The cry had come again, louder, more urgent, echoing from the hallway beyond. Two maids hurried around the corner, faces pale, hands fluttering at their sides.“Ma’am,” one whispered. “The baby—Master Andre—he’s crying, and he won’t stop.”Mandy’s blood ran ice-cold. She dropped her gloves to the polished marble floor and bolted down the corridor,
The moon hung low and silver over Perez Manor, its light slicing through the tall hedges that surrounded the estate like silent sentinels. Inside the nursery wing, every corridor lay draped in shadows. Aliyah Pierce—once Aliyah Haven—pressed her back against the cool plaster wall, heart hammering so fiercely her ribs ached. Clutched in her trembling hand was a small leather satchel containing a change of clothes, a few bills, and her mother’s maiden name scrawled in cramped handwriting on a piece of paper.“Elena,” she whispered, voice raw. “It’s time.”The door at the end of the hall creaked open. A small, weary face peered in—Elena, the maid who had dared to undermine orders. Her dark hair was tucked beneath a service cap; her uniform looked the same as always, but her eyes blazed with something new.“Elena,” Aliyah breathed. “Are you sure?”Elena slipped into the hallway, closing the door silently behind her. “I’ve waited three months for this. Pedro’s gone to the city for a board
The hallway leading to Eduardo Perez’s bedroom smelled of lavender oil and finality. Silent-footed nurses hovered just beyond his door, their faces pinched with reverence and dread, as though death itself lingered on the other side—impatient, but polite.Pedro stood at the far end of the corridor, eyes fixed on the closed door ahead. His arms were crossed tightly, his tailored black suit still sharp, though the tension in his jaw betrayed the weight he carried. Beside him, Mandy adjusted the baby blanket around infant Andre, who lay quiet in her arms, his tiny features cradled against the silk of her gown."Are you ready?" she whispered to Pedro, casting him a quick glance.His reply was delayed."I don’t think anyone’s ever ready to say goodbye to a man like my father," Pedro murmured. His voice was devoid of the emotion swelling beneath the surface, but Mandy didn’t miss the way his fingers twitched at his sides. “But we’ve waited long enough. He asked for this.”The double doors cr
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
The ticking of the antique grandfather clock filled the silence in Pedro Perez’s study.He stood by the wide window, gaze fixed on the gardens beyond, but his mind was elsewhere — racing, replaying, waiting.A knock interrupted the quiet.“Sir,” came his assistant’s voice through the door, “The girl is in labor.”Pedro didn’t move. Not yet. Not until the memory finished playing out in his mind.His father’s voice still haunted him — gravelly and weak, but every word laced with steel.“You think money alone makes you powerful?” Eduardo Perez had said from his hospital bed. The tubes and machines around him did little to soften his authority. “A name survives through blood, not balance sheets.”Pedro had stood there, unmoved. “You already have an heir. Me.”“You’re not enough.” Eduardo’s breathing was shallow. His eyes sharp. “This empire… this legacy… it goes to your son. My grandson. That’s the law I made. No boy, no empire.”Pedro clenched his fists.“You want to be me?” Eduardo had