Rise Of The Forgotten Heiress

Eunia

Five children. That’s how many I’ve been forced to carry, all taken away from me at birth for the purpose of his revenge.

And this sixth child will be the death of me. I can already tell. After I had my fifth child, the doctor strongly warned against having another but Logan had screamed at him to mind his business and do the job he was being paid for because after all, this was my punishment.

Just as childbirth was Eve's punishment, it became mine six years ago. Tortured in the cruelest of ways by the only man I’ve ever loved my entire life.

Another contraction tears through me, violent and merciless. I gasp, my nails clawing into the damp sheets until my knuckles blanch white. My entire body screams in agony, wracked and worn from years of repeated pregnancies, malnutrition and neglect. My skin clings to fragile bones, my muscles weak and useless. Sweat pours from me, mixing with tears that streak down my face and sting the raw corners of my eyes. The cold, colorless walls of the room press in on me, suffocating, as though the house itself conspires to trap me in this endless cycle of suffering.

I remember every single birth that came before. How each one felt like my soul was being ripped away from my body. The endless hours of labor, the pain so brutal it made me want to claw my way out of my own skin. And then the moment of twisted bliss; the surge of dopamine, the second of happiness when I realized I had brought life into the world snatched from me as quickly as it came. Logan never let me hold them. Not once. As soon as they drew their first cries, he ripped them away.

Five children, and I have no idea what their names are. I don’t know what they look like. I never got to smell their skin, to kiss their cheeks, to memorize the curve of their fingers. They were whisked away the moment they left my body, never to be spoken of again, no matter how desperately I begged and pleaded. That was my punishment. His very own brand of revenge.

The grief always hit hardest after. I’d wake up in a silent, empty house, the bedsheets still soaked with my blood. My body would be aching, raw, still bleeding, my breasts swollen and leaking milk with no child to soothe them. Logan—the demon that he had become—never had the decency to let me be cleaned by the doctor before leaving. After all, once the baby was out, I was of no use to him.

I can still see myself crawling to the bathroom in those days, dragging my broken body across the floor, sobbing from pain and from the hollow ache of wanting my child in my arms. I would wash myself with shaking hands, every movement like knives carving through me, tears falling into the water. The cruelest part wasn’t even the physical pain, it was the longing. The way my arms felt so heavy and empty, the way my soul reached for what wasn’t there.

Logan never allowed postnatal medication. Just as he never gave me access to prenatal care, or vitamins, or any supplement to keep me alive. Maybe he thought if I had medication, I would take too much on purpose just to end my torment. But he didn’t understand that no matter how much I suffered, I could never harm myself while pregnant. I loved my babies too much.

The only “pain relief” I ever got after childbirth was a small bottle of Aspirin he always left on the bedside table like some act of benevolence. As though it made up for everything else. Sometimes I wonder how I haven’t died yet. Six years of infections waiting to fester, of blood pouring from me with no care, of being worked to the bone immediately after birth. How I’m still here, breathing, is something I’ll never understand.

Each birth left me weaker. Weeks of trauma followed, where I was forced to cook, to clean, to keep the house running or risk starving. Nights spent curled on the floor, my body screaming with pain while tears soaked the pillow. My spirit frayed each time, but somehow never broke. Six years locked away in this “safe house” in Lord knows where, completely disconnected from the outside world and tortured in the same cycle again and again. Each birth added another layer of psychological torture, gradually chipping away at my sanity and if this baby really doesn't kill me, having it taken away would finally plunge me into madness.

Anything to escape this torment. Please.

Logan stands at the foot of the bed now, arms crossed over his chest, his posture rigid with authority. His eyes, icy like the northern mountains, gleam with hatred. There’s a twisted satisfaction on his face as he watches me writhe. He leans forward, his voice dripping with impatience.

“Push harder, Eunia. You’re wasting my time, I have a meeting in an hour.”

“I’m trying.” My voice cracks, raw, strangled with sobs. “It hurts… It hurts so bad it feels like I’m losing my mind.”

His glare hardens, like my agony is an insult.

“And you think that gives you a right to complain?” His sneer is venom. “You’re here to suffer, Eunia. Every scream, every tear is your penance. You’ve already had five, this will be no different.”

The cruelty in his tone cuts deeper than the pain ripping through my body. This was the man I once loved, the man I once thought was my entire world. Now he is my executioner.

Another contraction seizes me, brutal, tearing a scream from my throat.

The doctor kneels at my side. The same doctor who’s delivered every one of my children, the only sliver of kindness I’ve known in six years. His gloved hands steady my arm as his voice lowers, calm, encouraging.

“Eunia… I know it hurts. You can do this. Just a little more and it’ll be over soon, I promise.”

His words are a thread of hope against the weight of Logan’s cruelty. I cling to them even as terror grips me. My arms shake uncontrollably, my body nearly useless. My legs and back are going numb, my strength slipping away. Another contraction slams through me and I realize that I can’t do it. I can’t push anymore.

My eyes widen, wet with panic. “I… I can’t…”

The doctor grips my shoulder firmly. “Stay with me, Eunia. We can do this together. Just take a deep breath. I’ll assist you.”

He works with painstaking care, sliding his lubricated hands inside, easing the baby’s head forward with skill and gentleness. I feel every movement, every intrusion, a burning, stretching agony that makes me scream until my throat is raw. The pain mingles with relief as the pressure shifts. My body shakes as he coaxes the head free, then the rest of the child, slow and methodical.

Finally, I hear a sharp cry.

“It’s a girl,” the doctor announces with glee. “Congratulations!”

I collapse against the pillows, sobbing, my chest heaving. Tears spill down my face, but this time, there is a faint smile trembling through them. Pride warms my heart even as I feel the last of my strength slipping away. 

I did it. I really did it. I had my baby. She’s alive.

But my joy is short-lived. The doctor hands the baby straight to Logan. Cold and efficient, like every time before.

My throat tightens as I rasp, hoarse and fragile, “Logan… please… just this once… let me hold her…”

His gaze is almost murderous as he spews more venom at me.

“No. You’ve brought only darkness, Eunia. Your shadow will taint this child. You deserve every bit of suffering, and even death won’t free you. You will burn in hell for what you’ve done.”

The pain of those words are indescribable.

The doctor’s voice rises suddenly, panicked. “Mr. Graham, we have a problem… She’s lost a lot of blood. This is why I insisted on the use of contraceptives. Her body has been through a lot from having six babies in six years. She never gets any time to recover before the next pregnancy. She’s already going into hypovolemic shock and the chances she survives are… very slim. I can try, but—”

“Don’t.” Logan cuts him off, calm and ruthless. “She’s served her purpose. Six healthy children. That’s all she was ever good for. Let her bleed out.”

The doctor hesitates, torn, his hands trembling as he pulls them away. His conflict is written in his face, but Logan’s authority is absolute.

My vision darkens. The edges of the room blur into shadows. I can feel life slipping from me, draining into the sheets beneath. My body trembles as cold settles deep into my bones.

Images flood my mind—memories of children I never got to hold, their phantom cries, the warmth I never knew. I think of every hug stolen, every lullaby unsung.

With the last of my strength, I whisper, “Please… God, if you’re up there… please let my children grow up happy, healthy… and safe from the torment I’ve endured… Let them never know suffering or pain. I’ve endured it all on their behalf… please…”

My breaths grow shallow. My heart slows. Regret pierces me, heavy and unrelenting. Thoughts pile up, unspoken, trapped in the corners of my fading mind.

I wish I had done things differently.

As my eyes close, surrendering to death, one truth pierces the fog: if I had a second chance, I would have nothing to do with Logan Graham.