Chapter Eight: On a Knife-Edge

Alice’s POV

I struggled to take on board the seriousness of his warning. What could he mean?

“First,” Adam said, his voice steady but grave, “the ultrasound and preliminary pathology show a tumor in your uterus. It’s not small, and its position is… problematic. It’s pressing against major blood vessels.”

I froze. A tumor?

So that crushing, persistent pain hadn’t just been emotional, after all. My body had been screaming long before my mind was ready to listen.

“At this stage, the markers lean toward benign. But its growth rate is abnormal. Aggressive.”

He paused. Then came the part that shattered what little balance I had left. “But,” Adam said quietly, “also, you’re pregnant. Around eight to nine weeks.”

My world stopped moving. Eight to nine weeks?

Exactly around the time of that rare night a couple of months ago — too much wine, and a brief illusion of closeness that I had mistaken for intimacy.

“The tumor and the embryo are competing inside a very limited space,” Adam went on, switching fully into clinical mode. “The tumor is consuming nutrients aggressively. Pregnancy hormones will accelerate its growth — possibly trigger malignant transformation.”

He didn’t sugarcoat it. “If you continue the pregnancy, the fetus is unlikely to survive. And you’re at serious risk — massive hemorrhaging, organ failure, possibly before the second trimester. Medically speaking, it’s a losing gamble.”

A pause. Then the verdict.

“Alice, you were the top of our class. You know how this works. From a medical standpoint, there’s no upside here.” He met my eyes. “My recommendation is surgery. As soon as possible. A full hysterectomy. The tumor — and the embryo — would both have to be removed.”

Removed. The word cut deeper than I expected.

“You’re still young,” he added gently. “You’ve seen Dr. Heinrich’s letter. You still have another future.”

The room was painfully quiet. The monitor beeped softly beside me.

I looked down at my abdomen — flat, unremarkable. And yet inside it was a life. The only thing in this cold, dishonest marriage that was truly mine. Blood of my blood.

And from the moment it existed, the poor little thing had been running from death.

Forcing my voice to stay steady, I said, “Thank you. For not telling David first.”

“This is your body; your privacy. You get to make that decision.” His expression softened. “I may be David’s friend — but right now, I’m your doctor.”

I closed my eyes. Tears slid silently over my cheeks.

“Please keep this confidential,” I said, looking straight at him. “From everyone. Especially David. And especially the Newcombe family.”

“I want to handle this as a person — not as a family asset, or from a lineage reproductive obligation.”

Adam was quiet for a long time. Finally, he nodded.

“On my family name, I won’t disclose anything without your consent.” Then, gently but firmly: “But Alice — you need to understand. Neither the tumor nor the pregnancy will wait.”

He squeezed my hand and gave me an encouraging smile. He left shortly after. I listened as his footsteps faded down the hall.

The room felt colder once I was alone. I clutched the manila envelope in one hand — Dr. Heinrich’s letter, my lifeline.

My other hand drifted to my lower abdomen.

One was a rope thrown to save me. The other was a knife-edge pressed into me by fate.

Where was David right now? Probably sitting in a private hospital room, holding Lily’s hand, promising her stability. A future. A place.

And here I was — carrying a child he would never even believe existed.

The night deepened. Back home again, I was sitting on the sofa when I heard the front door close.

David was home.

He carried the chill of the night in with him. His suit jacket was folded neatly over his arm, tie loosened but not undone. Every movement precise, restrained — still the same composed gentleman.

He didn’t look at me. He walked straight toward the stairs.

I stood and followed him to the bottom step. “David,” I said, my voice shaking. “Where are you going?”

He stopped and looked down at me. There was no anger in his gray-blue eyes. Just distance. Politeness. A faint impatience that hurt far more.

“I’m exhausted. The doctor thinks Lily may have a concussion. They want to keep her overnight to monitor swelling. She needs someone with her.”

He hesitated, turned back, and went into the storage room under the stairs to pull out a black suitcase.

“You’re moving out?” I stepped in front of it, staring at him. “On just the second day after bringing her here, you’re leaving your wife — and Camilla — to take responsibility for another woman?”

He took the suitcase upstairs and into his room. I followed, waiting for his response.

His movements were smooth, efficient, as he started to pack. He answered calmly, “Lily has no support network in this city. As for Camilla, I’ll arrange the best nanny and security. You should understand, Alice — she was hurt because of you. I need to make amends.”

“Amends?” I laughed softly, bitterness rising like bile. “You’ve been playing the role of the compassionate man but when it comes to me, you offer no support at all.”

I swallowed. “You call this ‘amends.’ I call it running away from your marriage.”

He zipped the suitcase shut. The sound was sharp. Straightening, he fastened his watch with deliberate calm. “If that’s how you choose to see it, I can’t stop you. But I hope you don’t do anything irrational.”

I looked at him.

I thought of Adam’s diagnosis. Of the tiny life fighting inside me. That life was mine — and his.

“David,” I said slowly, carefully. “What if… what if there was another child — ours?”

His hand paused mid-motion. He looked up, brows drawing together slightly. For a brief moment, there was assessment in his eyes.

Then it vanished. Replaced by quiet disdain.

“Alice,” he said gently, precisely, “don’t pull a fabricated pregnancy drama, it really doesn’t suit you.”