Chapter 8

"Mr. Marshal, your wife has suddenly developed a high fever and lost consciousness. We can't wake her up." The doctor, following Phoebe's instructions, called Nathan. His voice was tense over the phone. "For her safety, we have no choice but to perform the C-section ahead of schedule. Where are you? You should come immediately."

"...What? The surgery is early?" Nathan's breathing sounded unsteady. "...Okay, wait for me. I'll be there right away."

At the same time, Phoebe made a video call to Clara and pressed record. As expected, Clara answered.

"Master, you wouldn't leave me now, would you?" Her voice was soft and sweet, dripping with feigned innocence. "We just started the foreplay. We haven't even gotten to the good part yet."

"I don't have time. Phoebe is about to give birth. I need to be with her." Nathan hurriedly pulled on his clothes.

"You're not a doctor. What good will you do there?" Clara stepped closer, wrapping her arms around his neck. "What she needs now is a doctor, not you. But your little bunny..." She guided his hand under her skirt. "Your little bunny really needs you right now. Feel for yourself."

Nathan swallowed hard. "...Stop it. Phoebe has suffered so much to give me this child. If I'm not by her side when she delivers, what kind of man would I be?"

"But she's already unconscious. Even if you rush there now, she won't know you came." Clara stood on her tiptoes and whispered against his ear, her breath warm. "Besides, during a C-section, the doctors won't even let you into the operating room. You'll just be waiting outside. Since you're only going to wait, why not stay here and take care of your sick little bunny instead?"

"She won't find out," she added softly, delivering the final blow.

And just like that, Nathan gave in.

He flipped Clara beneath him, pressing her into the bed. "Fine," he growled. "I'll cure your fever properly tonight."

At that moment, something inside Phoebe broke beyond repair.

She ended the video call, turned to the doctor, and said quietly, "Do it."

The cold metal of the surgical instruments entered her body. Even with the anesthesia, the pain was unbearable. It felt as if her soul was being torn apart.

The procedure took over an hour. When it was done, the child was gone.

Phoebe lay pale and drenched in cold sweat. The mattress beneath her was soaked through.

"Miss Harris," the doctor said, "your brother has prepared everything for you—a passport, a visa, and a new identity overseas. There's also a medical team on the plane. If you wish to leave, you can go tonight. Once you leave, your identity here will be erased. Phoebe Harris will cease to exist."

Phoebe closed her eyes. For the first time in months, she smiled—a small, quiet smile from deep within. "I want to leave now," she said.

"Understood. We'll make the arrangements immediately," the doctor replied.

Just before she boarded the plane, the doctor asked, "What should we do with the fetus?"

"Give it to Nathan," Phoebe whispered, her voice weak but steady. "And when you do, tell him this—I was going to keep the baby. If he had kept his promise and stayed with me during the delivery, our child would have lived. But he didn't. When I needed him most—when his child needed him most—he was with Clara. He killed his own flesh and blood."

The medical team lifted her onto the plane.

As the cabin door closed, Phoebe pulled out her phone. She sent Nathan the recorded video and every cruel, taunting message Clara had sent her over the past weeks.

When the files were sent, she handed her phone to the nurse. "Throw it away."

The plane began its ascent. That familiar weightless feeling settled over her.

Through the small window, Phoebe took one last look at the city below.

'Goodbye, Nathan. Don't look for me. Don't apologize. I will never forgive you.'