The "private residence" wasn't a home; it was a gilded cage. For eight months, I lived in a sprawling estate in the Hamptons, surrounded by high walls and silent staff who looked through me as if I were made of glass. I was fed organic meals, poked by expensive needles, and monitored by a revolving door of doctors who spoke about me in the third person."The patient’s vitals are stable," they would say."The subject requires more iron," they would note.Never once did they call me Nora. And never once did Liam Sterling visit.Every night, I lay in the dark, my hands resting on my swollen belly. The "flutters" had grown into rhythmic, powerful kicks. It was my secret—my only joy in this sterile prison. I knew there were two. I felt them tumble over each other, a secret language of movement that the doctors, in their cold efficiency, continued to ignore.The primary physician, Dr. Aris, was a man with eyes as cold as Liam’s. Every time he ran the ultrasound, he kept the screen til
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