Proof of Pain

The corridors of Saint Armand Hospital smelled like antiseptic and old grief.

Isla hadn’t stepped inside this building in five years. Not since that night when her body had betrayed her, the man she married hadn’t even shown up, he just signed her away like a charity.

Her heels clicked against the polished tiles, echoing like a heartbeat.

The nurse at the records desk blinked up at her. “Ma’am, you’re asking for files from five years ago? Without a subpoena or next of kin consent—”

“I am the next of kin,” Isla interrupted. “The mother.”

The nurse’s hands hesitated over the keyboard. “What name should I search for?”

“Wilde,” Isla said quietly. “Isla Wilde Blackwell. March 19th, three years ago.”

The woman typed in silence and then a small frown came over her.

“There’s... a file under that date. But it’s marked confidential and restricted. I can't even access it.”

Isla’s stomach turned. “Who locked it?”

The nurse looked uneasy. “It just says ‘authorized by Blackwell Holdings.’ That’s... strange for a maternity case.”

Isla forced a brittle smile. “Strange is my specialty. Can I speak to someone who can override it?”

The nurse nodded and disappeared into the back office.

Isla exhaled shakily.

She looked around the lobby. Everything was pristine and soulless, like it hadn’t witnessed the night she shattered. Like it hadn’t watched her scream into her pillow, begging for a baby she never got to hold.

Something wasn’t right.

And her gut knew it long before her brain caught up.

---

Twenty Minutes Later

An older man in a grey coat came out. “Ms. Wilde? I’m Dr. Carrick. You asked about a 2019 maternity record?”

“Yes. My own. I lost my child here.”

The doctor looked uncomfortable. “I wasn't attending, but I’ve reviewed the file.”

“And?”

“There’s... limited documentation. No signed post-delivery forms. No coroner’s report. No parental confirmation on burial or transfer.”

Her blood went cold. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said gently, “that the file was altered. And possibly or deliberately erased..”

Isla felt the ground tilt beneath her.

“I’m sorry,” he added. “I’ve seen this sort of thing before. Powerful families... sometimes they make such decisions to protect their reputations.”

Powerful families.

Only one name came to mind.

Claire Blackwell.

---

Thirty Minutes Later – Hospital Parking Lot

“Still digging up ghosts?” Claire’s voice was honey and poison, smooth as her designer gloves.

Isla turned sharply.

Claire stood beside a sleek town car, sunglasses perched, her blonde hair coiled into its usual regal bun. Not a hair out of place. There was not even a crack in her mask.

“I suppose it’s very fitting,” Claire added. “You always were obsessed with corpses, your marriage, your reputation, your child.”

Isla’s hand curled into a fist.

“What did you do?” she asked, voice dangerously calm.

Claire smiled. “The same thing you would’ve done if you had the guts for it.”

“You buried the truth.”

“I buried a scandal.”

Isla stepped closer. “You stole something which was mine.”

“I saved Lucian from a ruined marriage he had with you, It was bound to be doomed. And I saved you from becoming a permanent stain on the Blackwell legacy. Be grateful to me.”

Isla’s voice cracked. “You lied to me.”

“I just protected my family's name,” Claire replied smoothly. “Some truths, Isla, are better left buried.”

Isla’s throat burned.

“You always hated me.”

“No,” Claire said. “I pitied you. There’s a difference.”

She stepped into her car, window gliding up like a guillotine. The car rolled away, leaving Isla rooted there, gasping in fury and heartbreak.

---

That Night – Isla’s Penthouse

She didn’t cry in the hospital.

She didn’t cry in the car.

She waited until she was home, alone, in silence and then she finally shattered. She broke.

She stood in her bedroom, surrounded by glass and moonlight, and dropped to her knees.

Her hands shook as they dug through an old drawer.

There, beneath old letters and dusty scarves, was a single sonogram photo.

A smudged black-and-white image.

A tiny heart that once beat inside her.

She pressed the photo to her chest and screamed.

Years of silence broke.

Years of composure crumbled.

And for the first time since the night her world ended and Isla Wilde cried.

---

Midnight – Elan Vogue Headquarters

Leo Stone found her in the executive lounge, curled on the velvet couch, still dressed in grief and pain.

She didn’t look up.

He walked in silently, set down two drinks, and sat across from her.

“Tell me,” he said.

And she did.

She told him Everything.

The lost child. The empty file. Claire. The lies. The pain. The fire burned inside her chest.

Leo didn’t interrupt her, not even once.

When she finished, he leaned forward, voice low.

“You want revenge?”

Isla looked up, eyes wet, voice steel.

“Let’s bring them all down.”

“One by one.”

Isla wasn’t just a woman scorned.

She was a mother who was wronged.

And the world had no idea what she was capable of.

At Least not yet.

---