The Sixth Baby Won’t Be His - Chapter 6: Chapter 6
You are reading The Sixth Baby Won’t Be His, Chapter 6: Chapter 6. Read more chapters of The Sixth Baby Won’t Be His.
I stared at him like I was seeing a stranger—my voice breaking as I pointed at Lydia, my vision swimming with tears.
"My retribution? You're the ones who should be paying!"
My whole body shook with barely contained rage as I drew a shuddering breath. "Tell me, Gerrald—how is it that every single one of my babies, perfectly healthy inside me, was born dead? And where are their bodies?"
His brow furrowed, irritation flashing in his eyes. "Jenny, your health was always fragile. The children never stood a chance—you just didn't realize it at the time. I buried them properly. Why dredge this up now? Apologize to Lydia."
I stood frozen, my chest hollow, my hands limp at my sides.
Deep down, I'd known this would be his answer. So why did it still feel like a knife twisting in my ribs?
My fingers curled into fists—then released. Slowly, I bent down and picked up a jagged shard of glass from the floor. Without flinching, I pressed it to my left hand and sliced off my pinky in one clean motion.
Blood sprayed across the marble tiles.
"Jenny!" Gerrald's voice cracked with alarm.
I met his gaze, my lips twisting into a bitter smile.
"You're right, Gerrald. Ms. Maron's hands belong in an operating room. Since hers is injured, I'll pay her back with a finger. Does that settle it?"
Crimson pooled at my feet as I turned away, stepping over the mess like it was nothing. For a heartbeat, I thought Gerrald might reach for me—but then Lydia whimpered, pressing into him with tearful fragility.
"Gerrald, my hand… it hurts…"
Just like that, he let me go.
The hospital waiting room was sterile and silent when my phone buzzed—Gerrald's name flashing on the screen.
"Sweetheart, how's your hand? Don't worry, Lydia's fine. Today was my fault. I know you've blamed yourself for losing the babies, and I shouldn't have said those things."
I clenched the phone tighter, saying nothing.
"But I promised my mother we'd go through with the wedding. It's just for appearances, but if we postpone, she'll be devastated. Her health isn't what it used to be—"
"I'm fine," I cut in, my voice flat. "Take care of her. Don't let your mother worry."
Gerrald chuckled, warm and easy. "Silly girl, what's this 'your mother' nonsense? She's our mother. One day, I'll make sure she accepts you."
He sounded so convinced, like he actually believed it.
"I'm flying out the day after tomorrow. I'll bring you something special tomorrow, okay? Be good."
My eyes drifted to the open ward door beside me, where a news segment played on the mounted TV:
[BREAKING: Raymond Group CEO Spares No Expense for Injured Wife! After minor hand injury, top specialists were flown in overnight. To lift her spirits, he dropped 300 million yuan on a Qing Dynasty jade beauty roller at auction—once owned by an imperial concubine.]
The camera panned to Lydia, preening under the spotlight as headlines declared her The Most Spoiled Woman Alive.
I turned to the doctor. "I'm ready."
Even through the anesthesia, I felt it—the cold scrape of instruments carving me empty again. Another child gone. When I left, arms wrapped around my hollow stomach, the tears came silently.
I'm sorry, baby. Next time, pick a better mother.
Gerrald didn't come home the next day. His call came instead.
"Jenny, I'm sorry. I wanted to see you, but Mom took a turn. As her son, I have to—"
I glanced at my phone, smiling grimly. Lydia's latest post had gone up a minute earlier: a hotel bed, silk robe slipping off her shoulder, Gerrald shirtless at her feet—his hands massaging her ankles, gaze dripping with devotion. Rumpled clothes littered the floor, the aftermath of passion unmistakable.
I exhaled sharply. Then I gathered every trace of myself in that house—and burned it all. The flames swallowed seven years of love and pain, leaving only ashes.
Dawn light filtered through the airport windows as I neared the gate. My phone buzzed—another message from Gerrald:
"Jenny, are you awake? Don't skip breakfast. I miss you so much it hurts."
"Wait for me at home. I'll bring you a gift. God, I'd kill to kiss you right now."
I looked up.
There he was—thirty feet away, lips locked with Lydia, fingers typing out that message without missing a beat.
Pathetic.
I didn't reply. Instead, I compiled every photo, every damning chat log, and scheduled them to his work email. Then I walked away—toward a gate leading anywhere but where he was headed.
Gerrald stood at the wedding venue overseas, surrounded by glittering guests. His mother beamed, waiting for the ceremony to begin.
Frowning at his silent phone, he flagged his assistant.
"Book Jenny a flight for tomorrow. She's probably lonely."
A neat solution. By the time she arrived, the wedding would be over. Too late for protests.
But as he took Lydia's hand, his assistant sprinted forward, face ashen.
"Sir—it's Madam! She knows everything about the children!"
Gerrald froze. "What?"
The man swallowed hard. "She boarded a flight hours ago. We just got word—the plane went down."
"My retribution? You're the ones who should be paying!"
My whole body shook with barely contained rage as I drew a shuddering breath. "Tell me, Gerrald—how is it that every single one of my babies, perfectly healthy inside me, was born dead? And where are their bodies?"
His brow furrowed, irritation flashing in his eyes. "Jenny, your health was always fragile. The children never stood a chance—you just didn't realize it at the time. I buried them properly. Why dredge this up now? Apologize to Lydia."
I stood frozen, my chest hollow, my hands limp at my sides.
Deep down, I'd known this would be his answer. So why did it still feel like a knife twisting in my ribs?
My fingers curled into fists—then released. Slowly, I bent down and picked up a jagged shard of glass from the floor. Without flinching, I pressed it to my left hand and sliced off my pinky in one clean motion.
Blood sprayed across the marble tiles.
"Jenny!" Gerrald's voice cracked with alarm.
I met his gaze, my lips twisting into a bitter smile.
"You're right, Gerrald. Ms. Maron's hands belong in an operating room. Since hers is injured, I'll pay her back with a finger. Does that settle it?"
Crimson pooled at my feet as I turned away, stepping over the mess like it was nothing. For a heartbeat, I thought Gerrald might reach for me—but then Lydia whimpered, pressing into him with tearful fragility.
"Gerrald, my hand… it hurts…"
Just like that, he let me go.
The hospital waiting room was sterile and silent when my phone buzzed—Gerrald's name flashing on the screen.
"Sweetheart, how's your hand? Don't worry, Lydia's fine. Today was my fault. I know you've blamed yourself for losing the babies, and I shouldn't have said those things."
I clenched the phone tighter, saying nothing.
"But I promised my mother we'd go through with the wedding. It's just for appearances, but if we postpone, she'll be devastated. Her health isn't what it used to be—"
"I'm fine," I cut in, my voice flat. "Take care of her. Don't let your mother worry."
Gerrald chuckled, warm and easy. "Silly girl, what's this 'your mother' nonsense? She's our mother. One day, I'll make sure she accepts you."
He sounded so convinced, like he actually believed it.
"I'm flying out the day after tomorrow. I'll bring you something special tomorrow, okay? Be good."
My eyes drifted to the open ward door beside me, where a news segment played on the mounted TV:
[BREAKING: Raymond Group CEO Spares No Expense for Injured Wife! After minor hand injury, top specialists were flown in overnight. To lift her spirits, he dropped 300 million yuan on a Qing Dynasty jade beauty roller at auction—once owned by an imperial concubine.]
The camera panned to Lydia, preening under the spotlight as headlines declared her The Most Spoiled Woman Alive.
I turned to the doctor. "I'm ready."
Even through the anesthesia, I felt it—the cold scrape of instruments carving me empty again. Another child gone. When I left, arms wrapped around my hollow stomach, the tears came silently.
I'm sorry, baby. Next time, pick a better mother.
Gerrald didn't come home the next day. His call came instead.
"Jenny, I'm sorry. I wanted to see you, but Mom took a turn. As her son, I have to—"
I glanced at my phone, smiling grimly. Lydia's latest post had gone up a minute earlier: a hotel bed, silk robe slipping off her shoulder, Gerrald shirtless at her feet—his hands massaging her ankles, gaze dripping with devotion. Rumpled clothes littered the floor, the aftermath of passion unmistakable.
I exhaled sharply. Then I gathered every trace of myself in that house—and burned it all. The flames swallowed seven years of love and pain, leaving only ashes.
Dawn light filtered through the airport windows as I neared the gate. My phone buzzed—another message from Gerrald:
"Jenny, are you awake? Don't skip breakfast. I miss you so much it hurts."
"Wait for me at home. I'll bring you a gift. God, I'd kill to kiss you right now."
I looked up.
There he was—thirty feet away, lips locked with Lydia, fingers typing out that message without missing a beat.
Pathetic.
I didn't reply. Instead, I compiled every photo, every damning chat log, and scheduled them to his work email. Then I walked away—toward a gate leading anywhere but where he was headed.
Gerrald stood at the wedding venue overseas, surrounded by glittering guests. His mother beamed, waiting for the ceremony to begin.
Frowning at his silent phone, he flagged his assistant.
"Book Jenny a flight for tomorrow. She's probably lonely."
A neat solution. By the time she arrived, the wedding would be over. Too late for protests.
But as he took Lydia's hand, his assistant sprinted forward, face ashen.
"Sir—it's Madam! She knows everything about the children!"
Gerrald froze. "What?"
The man swallowed hard. "She boarded a flight hours ago. We just got word—the plane went down."
End of The Sixth Baby Won’t Be His Chapter 6. Continue reading Chapter 7 or return to The Sixth Baby Won’t Be His book page.