I Was Just A Womb To Them, Now They'll Pay - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
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Eight months pregnant, my parents—who'd always favored my sister—actually invited me over for dinner. Then the fire broke out. Without a second thought, they shoved me aside and carried Marianne out instead. My leukemia-stricken sister, of course.
I was ready to die in that inferno when Andrew came charging through the flames like some damn hero. Didn't even flinch at his own burns, just cradled my face with those tender eyes. "You're still carrying our baby," he choked out. "What if something happens to them?"
For one shining moment, I actually believed someone loved me.
Then I found his texts with Marianne.
"Just hold on, sweetheart. Once she delivers and we get that umbilical cord blood, you'll be free."
My fingers dialed the hospital before my brain caught up. "I need to schedule an abortion."
The appointment form was still warm in my hands when I literally collided with Andrew escorting Marianne to her tests. He froze. "Miranda? Your checkup isn't till next week." That familiar panic flashed across his face—the same look I'd mistaken for devotion. Now I knew better. He wasn't worried about me. I was just the incubator for Marianne's cure.
"Just some light cramping," I lied.
Andrew's hands were suddenly all over my bump. "Where does it hurt? Did they run tests? Is the baby—"
Marianne cut him off with a venomous glare. "God, you can't even gestate properly. That baby's the only reason you're useful."
I thrust the fake ultrasound at Andrew. "Everything's perfect." His relieved exhale made my stomach churn. "Go rest, okay? Marianne's got scans till 4." His arm never left her waist.
Old me would've missed how his fingers lingered on her hip. Not anymore. I shadowed them straight to the hematology department—where Dad, the head oncologist, was waiting.
"We're out of time," Dad barked. "Marianne's counts are crashing."
Andrew gripped her hand like a lifeline. "Two more months. The cord blood—"
"Her organs won't last two weeks," Dad snapped.
Then Mom emerged from the shadows in her OB-GYN scrubs. My ribs cracked open. Of course. My sudden "value" wasn't about me at all.
Andrew hesitated. "But eight months... isn't that risky for the baby?"
The baby. Not me. Never me.
I was ready to die in that inferno when Andrew came charging through the flames like some damn hero. Didn't even flinch at his own burns, just cradled my face with those tender eyes. "You're still carrying our baby," he choked out. "What if something happens to them?"
For one shining moment, I actually believed someone loved me.
Then I found his texts with Marianne.
"Just hold on, sweetheart. Once she delivers and we get that umbilical cord blood, you'll be free."
My fingers dialed the hospital before my brain caught up. "I need to schedule an abortion."
The appointment form was still warm in my hands when I literally collided with Andrew escorting Marianne to her tests. He froze. "Miranda? Your checkup isn't till next week." That familiar panic flashed across his face—the same look I'd mistaken for devotion. Now I knew better. He wasn't worried about me. I was just the incubator for Marianne's cure.
"Just some light cramping," I lied.
Andrew's hands were suddenly all over my bump. "Where does it hurt? Did they run tests? Is the baby—"
Marianne cut him off with a venomous glare. "God, you can't even gestate properly. That baby's the only reason you're useful."
I thrust the fake ultrasound at Andrew. "Everything's perfect." His relieved exhale made my stomach churn. "Go rest, okay? Marianne's got scans till 4." His arm never left her waist.
Old me would've missed how his fingers lingered on her hip. Not anymore. I shadowed them straight to the hematology department—where Dad, the head oncologist, was waiting.
"We're out of time," Dad barked. "Marianne's counts are crashing."
Andrew gripped her hand like a lifeline. "Two more months. The cord blood—"
"Her organs won't last two weeks," Dad snapped.
Then Mom emerged from the shadows in her OB-GYN scrubs. My ribs cracked open. Of course. My sudden "value" wasn't about me at all.
Andrew hesitated. "But eight months... isn't that risky for the baby?"
The baby. Not me. Never me.
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