Cute Baby, 2 S Park Victoria Drive, Milpitas, CA (2025)

12/08/2025

“You paid for me… now do it.”
— The rancher did. And after that… he had a wife.
You paid for me, I paid for you
The wind in the Sonoran desert blew hot and dry that day in 1887, when the auctioneer struck the wooden block three times.
“Lot number 17. Apache woman, captive, 22 years old, healthy, strong, half-broken. Sold as is. Who’ll start the bidding?”
In the dusty square of Casas Grandes—among drunken cowboys, federal soldiers, and Chinese merchants—only one man calmly raised his hand.
Don Luis Alberto Terrazas, owner of the La Esperanza ranch, widowed for five years, forty-two years old, with gray eyes as cold as the steel of his revolver.
“Mexican pesos,” he said in a voice that allowed no argument.
No one bid higher. The young woman, Nayeli—which in Apache means “the one who loves”—was shoved toward him, her wrists tied with rope.
She wore the torn dress of a village woman, her long black hair wild and loose, and in her eyes burned a hatred so pure it seemed like fire. When Don Luis took her by the arm, she spat in his face.
He wiped himself slowly with the back of his hand, said nothing, and lifted her into the wagon like one would load a sack of corn.
That was how it all began.
At the La Esperanza ranch, three days’ ride to the north, near the Arizona border, Nayeli was locked in the tack room. Don Luis did not touch her the first night, nor the second. He only sent food through the cook, old Co**ha.
On the seventh day, he entered himself carrying scissors and a comb.
“If you’re going to live under my roof, at least you’ll be clean.”
She sank her teeth into his hand until she drew blood. Don Luis didn’t shout. He only looked at her, serious, and left.
But the war had started long before, back in the mountains.
Two years earlier, the Chiricahua Apaches of Ju and Geronimo had swept down like a storm on the Mexican ranchos.
They burned La Esperanza.
They killed Don Luis’s wife, Isabela, and their four-year-old daughter.
They hung their bodies from the mesquite tree still visible from the main window.
Since then, Don Luis rarely smiled, and prayed even less.
When the Mexican rurales captured Nayeli in a raid near Babispe, she carried a Wi******er rifle and had her face painted for war. She was the daughter of a minor chief called Tasa the Red. Her older brother had died in the massacre of Tres Castillos defending Victorio. Her mother had been r***d and murdered by federal soldiers before her eyes when she was fifteen.
That was why she hated.
That was why she spat.
That was why, when Don Luis freed her from the ropes on the tenth day and told her:
“You are not a slave here. Work and I’ll give you food. You may stay or leave whenever you want.”
She didn’t believe him—
but she stayed.
First cleaning corrals,
then helping break c**ts.
She had fast hands and feared nothing.
The cowboys looked at her with equal parts desire and fear.
She looked at them the way one looks at mangy dogs.
One stormy night, a wild c**t escaped the corral. All the men were drunk from the feast of San Juan. Nayeli, barefoot, hair soaked with rain, ran after the animal, lassoed it with a maguey rope, and brought it back before Don Luis could even saddle his horse.
He saw her enter the yard trembling from the cold, still holding the rope—
and something cracked open in his chest.
Something he thought had died the day he buried Isabela and the little girl.
The next morning he gave her a horse:
“His name is Moonray.
He’s yours.”

12/08/2025

My husband made dinner, and right after my son and I ate, we collapsed. Pretending to be unconscious, I heard him say on the phone, "That's it... you'll both be leaving soon." After he left the room, I whispered to my son, "Don't move yet..." What happened next surpassed anything I could have imagined...
My husband made dinner, and for once, the house seemed almost normal.

Ethan moved around the kitchen like a man trying to prove something: humming, wiping the counter twice, setting the table with real plates instead of the ones we used on tired nights. He even poured my son Caleb a small glass of apple juice, with a grin that was a little too wide.

"Look at Daddy," Caleb said, grinning. "Chef Ethan."

I grinned back, but my stomach churned. Lately, Ethan had been... careful. Not nicer. Careful. Like someone watching their step. We ate chicken and rice, the kind of food that should have been comforting. Ethan barely touched his plate. He kept staring at his phone, face down next to his fork, as if it were about to vibrate for permission.
Halfway through the meal, my tongue felt heavy. Thick. My limbs grew sluggish, as if my body were crawling through water.
Caleb blinked hard. "Mom," he mumbled, "I'm... sleepy."

Ethan's hand reached out and patted Caleb's shoulder, gentle as a priest. "It's okay, buddy. Get some rest."

Fear pierced the fog.

I stood up too fast; the room tilted. My knees buckled. I grabbed the edge of the table, but it slid as if my hands weren't mine. The floor rose up to meet me.

The darkness tried to close in.

And just before he did, I made a life-saving decision: I let my body relax, but kept my mind alert.

I landed on the rug near the sofa, my cheek pressed against fibers that smelled of detergent. Caleb's small body slumped beside me, a soft moan, then silence. I wanted to grab him, shake him, scream...
But I didn't move.
I listened.

Ethan's chair scr***d backward. He approached slowly, like someone circling something they don't want to disturb. I felt his shadow fall across my face. His shoe brushed my shoulder, testing me.

"Good," he whispered.

Then he picked up his phone.

I heard his footsteps moving toward the hallway, and then his voice: low, urgent, relieved.

"It's done," Ethan said. "They ate him. They'll both be leaving soon."

My stomach froze. A woman's voice crackled over the loudspeaker, weak with emotion. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," he answered. "I followed the dosage. It'll look like an accidental overdose. I'll call 911 later... after it's too late."

"Finally," the woman whispered. "Then we can stop hiding."

Ethan exhaled as if he'd been holding years in his lungs. "I'll be free."

Footsteps. A door opening: our bedroom closet. A drawer sliding open.

Then something metallic clinked.

Ethan came back into the living room with something that skimmed the floor, maybe a duffel bag. He stopped again above us, and I felt his gaze like a hand around my throat.

"Goodbye," he murmured.

The front door opened. A cold draft came in. Then it closed.

Silence.

My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would give me away.

I forced my lips to move, barely more than a whisper, and murmured to Caleb, "Don't move yet..."

And then I felt it: Caleb's fingers tightening against mine.

He was awake... To be continued in the comment below 👇

12/08/2025

"🔥 “I Haven’t Had S*x in Six Months,” the Giant Apache Sister Whispered — And the Rancher’s Reply Made Her Step Back in Shock…
The night was supposed to be like all the others — the kind where silence pressed against the walls of the old ranch house and the desert wind carried secrets no one wanted to hear. But when the giant Apache sister stepped into the dim light, towering over the rancher with a strength that looked carved from the mountains themselves, nothing felt ordinary anymore.
She leaned in, voice low, as if confessing a crime.
“I haven’t had s*x in six months.”
The overseers smirked in the shadows. They thought they knew how this would go. They thought they’d seen this story play out a hundred times.
But the rancher didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Didn’t reach for her like every man before him.
Instead, he said something so unexpected her breath caught — something that made her take one full step back, eyes wide, heart pounding.
Because what he told her wasn’t desire.
It wasn’t pity.
It wasn’t ownership.
It was something no man in that place had ever given her before."

12/07/2025

“Spread your legs and let us see,” the towering Apache warriors ordered the lonely widow.
Three Moons in La Soledad
At the ranch called La Soledad, three days’ ride from Magdalena de Quino, lived Doña Refugio Valenzuela, widowed since the age of twenty-nine. Her husband, Don Crisóforo, had died four springs earlier, torn apart by a furious bull in the corral. Since then, Refugio had remained alone with two thousand hectares of dry land, forty skinny cows, and an adobe house that creaked like old bones every time the north wind blew.
She was tall, slim-waisted, her figure still holding a beauty hidden beneath the dark dresses of mourning she wore like a wound that never closed. The ranch hands respected her deeply, but they also admired her in silence. None dared approach her more than necessary. They said the widow’s green eyes could transmit strength or tenderness depending on the moment.
One November afternoon, as the sun spilled red across the sierra, three riders appeared on the horizon. They came from the direction of Arizona, crossing the border like shadows. They were Chiricahua Apaches: Alto, the eldest, around forty, with scars that looked like ancient maps; Nissoni, whose gentle gaze and bronze-carved body seemed sculpted by old gods; and Tasa, the youngest at twenty-two, with a smile that promised trouble and adventure.
All three rode bare-chested despite the cold, wearing only pants and low gun belts. Their black braids shone with bear grease. They carried Wi******er rifles and obsidian knives. No one on the ranch dared step forward. Refugio was on the porch cleaning a C**t ’51 when she saw them approach. She didn’t flinch. She rested the revolver on the railing and waited.
The Apaches dismounted without haste. Alto spoke first, his Spanish rough but clear.
“We’ve come from far away, woman. We crossed the desert because the spirits told us about you.”
Refugio raised an eyebrow.
“And what, exactly, did the spirits tell you?”
Nissoni stepped forward, his voice softer, almost a chant.
“That here lives a woman who no longer fears death… or passion.”
Tasa let out a low laugh and licked his lips.
“And that this woman has been alone far too long. We came to share our company with you, Doña Refugio. All three of us, tonight and any night you want.”
Silence fell like lead. The roosters stopped crowing. Even the dogs hid under the house. Refugio looked them up and down—first Alto, his broad chest marked with scars; then Nissoni, sculpted like an ancient statue; finally Tasa, insolent and beautiful like a young wolf. She burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the beams of the roof.
“Is that what the spirits said? That three Apaches should come because I’m lonely?”
She stood, picked up the revolver, and cocked it calmly.
“Anyone who enters La Soledad without permission leaves with lead in their belly. It’s always been that way here.”
Alto didn’t move. He only smiled.
“Then shoot us, woman. But listen first: we didn’t come to rob you or harm you. We came to offer you what no white man has ever given you. Three nights. Three warriors. No lies, no marriage promises, no tears at dawn. Just closeness, warmth, and passion until the body can’t take any more. Then we’ll go… or stay, if you order it.”
Refugio felt something stir inside her—something that had been asleep for years. The air smelled of leather, woodsmoke, and wild man.
“And if I say no?”
Tasa shrugged.
“Then we’ll leave. But you’ll spend the rest of your life knowing what you missed.”
The widow tucked the revolver into her waistband and stared at them.
“Come in. We’ll eat first. Then we’ll see if you’re as much men as you claim.”
That night, the big house of La Soledad filled with the smell of grilled meat, chile colorado, and good mezcal. The ranch hands, terrified, fled to the farthest shack. Refugio served the food herself, without servants. The Apaches ate with their hands, tearing chunks of rib like wolves. When the mezcal warmed their blood, Alto spoke again.

12/07/2025

THE MILLIONAIRE'S DAUGHTER DIED IN HIS ARMS, BUT THE GARDENER'S SON SAW SOMETHING ON THE MONITOR AND STOPPED... The doctor approached the ventilator, his face a mask of professional compassion.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Castillo," he said softly. "We did everything we could."

In the luxurious hospital suite, the silence was so thick it seemed to suck in all the air. The heart monitor by the bed displayed a flat, unyielding green line.

Millionaire Ricardo Castillo's daughter, Sofía, just 8 years old, had been declared brain dead.

The father, a man accustomed to moving the world with a phone call, was devastated by the bedside, holding his daughter's cold hand.

But on the other side of the room, almost invisible in a corner, a small boy watched the scene with an intensity that went unnoticed. It was Leo, the mansion's gardener's son. She was nine years old, and Sofia wasn't just the boss's daughter: she was his only friend.

"Disconnect the machine," ordered one of Sofia's uncles, a man in a suit who was already thinking about his inheritance. "There's nothing more we can do. We have to let her go."

The doctor nodded sadly, his hand moving to the respirator switch.

But at that moment, Leo's small voice broke the solemn silence.

"No, wait!"

Everyone turned to look at him, most of them irritated.

"What's this kid doing here?" whispered his aunt.

A bodyguard approached to es**rt him away.

"Little girl, this isn't your place. Leave right now."

Leo didn't move. His large, dark eyes were fixed, not on the girl, but on the heart monitor.

"Look!" he said, his voice trembling but firm. "The line moved."

The doctor sighed wearily. "Son, that's just electrical interference. It's normal, you have to go."

"It's not interference," Leo insisted, taking a step forward. "I saw it, it moved again... like a little jump."

Sofia's aunt exploded.

"Are you crazy? Stop making up nonsense and giving my brother false hope! My niece is dead! Dead! Have some respect."

Ricardo, the father, looked up, his eyes brimming with tears and confusion. He wanted to believe the boy, but he clung to the doctors' words. It was impossible.

"I'm not lying," Leo shouted, tears finally welling in his eyes. "He promised me. He promised he'd teach me to swim in the pool this summer."

He moved closer to the bed, ignoring the bodyguard who tried to stop him.

"Sofia, can you hear me? It's me, Leo. Don't go... you said friends don't give up."

At that moment, as the doctor's hand approached the switch, the heart monitor, which had remained completely silent, emitted a sound.
A single, faint but unmistakable beep.
The sound, subtle yet real, pierced the room like lightning. For an instant, no one moved. Time stood still.
The doctor, his hand inches from the switch, froze, his gaze fixed on the monitor screen.
Sofia's aunt stopped breathing, her face a mask of disbelief, and Ricardo, her father, felt an electric shock course through his body. A jolt of hope so violent it almost knocked him to the ground.

Continued in the comments.

12/06/2025

“Sir, That Boy Lives in My House” — What He Said Next Broke the Millionaire Down
Hernán had always been one of those men who seemed invincible. Business magazines called him “the king of investments,” conferences gave him standing ovations, and photos showed him smiling in front of luxury cars and mansions with perfect gardens. From the outside, his life was a showcase of success: tailored suits, expensive watches, first-class travel. But no one saw what happened behind his bedroom door, when the silence forced him to confront the one absence he couldn't buy.

That absence had a name: Lorenzo.
His only son, his little playmate, had disappeared a year earlier. There was no note, no call, no explanation. One afternoon he was playing in the garden, near the red swing, and then… nothing. As if the world had swallowed him whole. At first, Hernán moved heaven and earth: he hired detectives, paid rewards, appeared on television, and asked the police for help. Over time, the lights went out, the cameras left, the voices grew tired of repeating the same thing: “We’re sorry, no new leads.”
Only he kept searching.
That morning, like so many others, he put on the same wrinkled jacket that used to smell of expensive perfume and now only smelled of sleepless nights. He filled the back seat of the car with stacks of posters: Lorenzo’s photo smiling, his big eyes full of life, and below it an almost heart-wrenching message: “WANTED. ANY INFORMATION, PLEASE CALL…”. He started the engine with trembling hands and drove away from the elegant neighborhoods he knew by heart.

This time he decided to go where he had never been: to the neighborhoods where the streets were narrow, the walls peeling, and the houses stood almost by faith. There, no one looked at him like a millionaire. No one knew about his businesses, or his magazine covers. There, he was just a man with bloodshot eyes putting up posters, a father sick with homesickness.

He stopped beside a rusty post and took a deep breath before sticking up another poster. The tape stuck to his fingers, the paper crumpled, and he tried to smooth it out with a delicacy he no longer possessed. As he smoothed the photo, he whispered almost inaudibly,

"Someone must have seen you, son… someone…" The wind blew hot, stirring up dust and memories. The world seemed to keep turning, no one caring about his pain. Hernán felt ridiculous, small, absurd with that stack of papers in his hand. He was about to move to the next post when he heard a small voice behind him:

"Sir… that boy lives in my house."

He froze. His heart, which had been beating wearily for months, leaped so hard it almost took his breath away. He turned slowly, as if afraid that any sudden movement would shatter the illusion, and saw a barefoot girl in a worn dress with enormous eyes. She was looking at him with a mixture of shyness and certainty.

"What... what did you say?" he stammered.

The little girl pointed at the poster with her finger.

"That boy," she repeated, as if it were perfectly normal. "He lives with my mom and me."
Hernán's legs went weak. For a second he thought he was dreaming, that his lack of sleep was playing tricks on him. He crouched down to her level.

"Are you sure?" he asked, trying to control the trembling of his voice. "Are you sure it's him... this boy here?"

The little girl frowned, looked at the photo intently, and nodded naturally.

"Yes. He hardly talks. He draws all the time and cries at night. Sometimes he murmurs things... calls for someone."

"Who?" The question escaped him like a desperate whisper.

"His dad," she answered, unaware that she had just opened a crack in that man's world. Hernán felt like he couldn't breathe. Everything he had repressed for a year suddenly surged in his chest: Lorenzo's laughter echoing through the hallways, his drawings stuck to the refrigerator, his voice calling him at three in the morning after a nightmare. He had to close his eyes to keep from collapsing right there, in the middle of that unfamiliar street.

👉 Continued in the comments.

12/05/2025

Unaware She Just Married A Billionaire Son Who Controls His Entire Empire, He Splashes Mud On Ex-Wife While Mistress Laughs - What Happened When His Father Announced She's Pregnant With His Heir Left Him Destroyed - Episode 2
Emma was living in a tiny flat in Brixton, barely big enough for a bed and a desk, teaching full-time and going to therapy every Wednesday evening, when her friend Sarah dragged her to a charity event. "You need to get out," Sarah insisted. "Meet people. You love books—this is a children's literacy gala. It's perfect for you."
Emma almost said no. She'd spent eleven months rebuilding herself piece by piece, and the thought of being in a room full of strangers felt exhausting. But something made her say yes. Maybe it was the part of her that refused to let Richard's voice win. Maybe it was the teacher in her who couldn't resist anything involving children and books.
She wore a simple navy dress—the first dress she'd bought for herself in years. No one chose it for her. No one told her it wasn't good enough. It was hers.
The gala was at a beautiful venue in Kensington, all soft lighting and elegant decorations, but Emma felt out of place immediately. Everyone looked expensive. Important. Like they belonged in rooms like this. She was about to leave when she saw a man in a plain dark suit setting up chairs near the back. He wasn't barking orders at staff or checking his phone. He was just helping.
Emma walked over. "Do you need a hand?"
The man looked up and smiled—genuine, warm, the kind of smile that reaches the eyes. "I'd love one, actually. I'm terrible at making these rows straight."
They worked in silence for a few minutes, arranging chairs, and then he said, "I'm Alexander, by the way."
"Emma."
"So, Emma, what brings you here tonight?"
She expected the usual small talk—what do you do, where do you live, all the questions that felt like social auditions. But Alexander didn't ask any of that. Instead, he said, "What's your favorite children's book?"
And just like that, they spent two hours talking. About books. About teaching. About the magic of watching a child read their first full sentence. About how stories could save people. Alexander listened like her words mattered. Like she mattered. Not because of who she was married to or how much money she made or whether she could give him something. Just because of who she was.
When he asked for her number, Emma hesitated. Her hand instinctively went to her stomach—a habit she'd developed after the miscarriage, like she was protecting a wound that never healed. "I'm not really ready for—"
"Coffee," Alexander interrupted gently. "Just coffee. As friends who both think The Gruffalo is criminally underrated as literature."
Emma laughed. Really laughed. For the first time in over a year.
They met for coffee three days later. Then dinner. Then long walks through Hyde Park where Alexander talked about his work in "family business operations" but never elaborated. Emma assumed he worked for some corporate firm. She didn't care. He was kind. Patient. He never pushed. Never demanded.
When Emma told him about her divorce, Alexander didn't ask for details. When she cried telling him about Sophie, about the miscarriage, about being told she was barren, Alexander held her hand across the table and said nothing. Because nothing needed to be said.
Four months into dating, Alexander took Emma to meet his father. "There's something I need to tell you first," he said, and Emma's stomach dropped. Here it comes, she thought. He's married. He's moving. He doesn't want this anymore.
"My last name is Sterling," Alexander said quietly.
Emma blinked. "Okay?"
"Alexander Sterling. My father is Lawrence Sterling."
The name hit Emma like cold water. Lawrence Sterling. The Lawrence Sterling. Billionaire. Owner of Sterling Global Holdings. Twelve billion pounds. Buildings across London with his name on them. Government contracts. Media holdings. One of the most powerful men in Britain.
Emma stood up so fast she almost knocked over her chair. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I wanted you to know me. Not my last name. Not my father's money." Alexander's voice cracked. "Does that change things?"
Emma thought about Richard—who led with his money, his status, his achievements. Who made sure everyone knew exactly how successful he was. Then she looked at Alexander, who'd spent four months helping her arrange chairs, talking about children's books, holding her when she cried, never once mentioning that his family controlled an empire.
"No," she said. "It doesn't change anything."
They were engaged three months later. The wedding was small—forty people, mostly family. Emma wore a dress she chose herself. Lawrence Sterling insisted on walking her down the aisle because her father had died when she was nineteen. "You're my daughter now," Lawrence said, his voice thick with emotion. "Not my daughter-in-law. My daughter."
Richard Blackwell never knew it happened. Emma had blocked him on everything. Moved on completely.
When Emma became Emma Sterling, her life transformed overnight. Security details. Media attention. Events at Buckingham Palace. But Emma didn't change. She kept teaching. Kept volunteering. The Year Two students at her school in Hackney didn't care that their teacher was now married to a billionaire's son. They just cared that Mrs. Sterling always had the best stories and gave the best hugs.
Three months into the marriage, Emma felt nauseous during morning assembly. She excused herself, went to the staff bathroom, and took a pregnancy test she'd been carrying in her bag for a week, too terrified to use.
Two lines. Positive.
Emma's hands shook so violently she dropped the test. She slid down the bathroom wall and cried—not from joy, not yet. From terror. Because the doctors had told her this would never happen. Because she'd been told her body was too broken, too damaged, too traumatized to carry life. Because some part of her still believed Richard's voice: You'll kill this one too.
She called Alexander from the bathroom floor. "I need you to come get me."
Twenty minutes later, Alexander was there. Emma showed him the test, unable to speak. Alexander's face went through a dozen emotions in seconds—shock, fear, hope, determination—before settling on something fierce and protective. He knelt on the bathroom floor and took Emma's face in his hands.
"We're going to do this together. Every appointment. Every moment. Every fear. You're not alone."
At four months, the doctors confirmed it: the pregnancy was healthy. Stable. Miraculous, one doctor said. At five months, Emma's bump started showing. She told her Year Two class she was going to be a mummy. They made her cards covered in glitter and misspelled words. Emma cried happy tears.
Lawrence Sterling was beside himself with joy. His first grandchild. An heir to everything he'd built. He threw a small family dinner to celebrate, and when he toasted Emma, he said something that made her cry all over again: "You've given this family something we didn't know we were missing. Not an heir. Not a legacy. But hope. You've shown us that broken things can heal. That love is stronger than pain. That the best things in life aren't bought—they're built by people who refuse to give up."
Emma was five months pregnant, glowing with a happiness she thought she'd never feel, when she decided to visit her mother in her old neighborhood. She needed to pick up some things—chocolate digestives, oranges, the cravings were getting specific. She stopped at Tesco, the same one she'd shopped at for years. Wore comfortable maternity jeans and a loose sweater. Hair in a messy bun. No makeup. No security detail for once—she'd convinced Alexander she just needed an hour to feel normal.
She was crossing the street, grocery bags in hand, one hand protectively on her bump, when she heard the engine rev.
A black Bentley Continental GT accelerated toward a massive puddle right beside her. Emma barely had time to process it before the impact—a tsunami of muddy water, freezing cold, violent, exploding over her body. It soaked her from head to toe. Covered her face. Drenched her pregnant belly. Ruined her groceries.
Emma stood there, dripping, shocked, her hands instinctively covering her stomach.
The Bentley stopped. The window rolled down.
And Emma saw him.
Richard.
That face. Those eyes. That smile she used to think was charming but now recognized as cruel.
"Oh my God—Emma? Is that you?" Richard's voice was pure delight. Pure victory. He was laughing. Actually laughing.
Vanessa sat in the passenger seat, designer sunglasses, designer purse, designer cruelty. She giggled. "Richard, you're terrible! Is that really your ex-wife?"
"In the flesh," Richard said, looking Emma up and down like she was roadkill. "Still shopping at Tesco. Still living that budget life. Some things never change, huh?"
Emma couldn't speak. Couldn't move. She just stood there, five months pregnant, covered in filthy water, staring at the man who'd destroyed her.
Richard's eyes landed on her stomach. His smile widened—sharp, vindictive. "Wait. Are you pregnant?"
Emma's hands shook. She said nothing.
Richard's laughter turned vicious. "Oh my God, Vanessa, look—some desperate fool actually knocked up my barren ex-wife." He leaned further out the window, his voice dropping to something designed to hurt. "We both know your useless body can't carry a child, Emma. You'll kill this one too, just like you killed ours. What idiot agreed to get you pregnant? Does he know you're defective?"
The words hit Emma like physical blows. Her vision blurred. Not from the muddy water. From the memories flooding back—the hospital room, Sophie's tiny body, Richard's voice saying "these things happen," the doctors saying "barren," the years of believing she deserved this.
Richard revved his engine. "You know, I always wondered what happened to you after the divorce. Guess you're still exactly where I left you—struggling through life, poor and pathetic, pretending you're not broken."
Vanessa's laughter mixed with the sound of rain. "Richard, she looks miserable enough already."
"Does she?" Richard grinned wider. "I think she looks exactly like what she is—ordinary. A failure. A woman nobody wanted until some desperate man settled."
He caught Emma's eyes one last time. "Good luck keeping that baby alive, Emma. We both know how that story ends."
The Bentley sped off, engine roaring, leaving Emma standing in a puddle of filthy water, groceries destroyed, dignity shattered, five months pregnant and covered in mud that smelled like sewage and oil and rot.
People on the street stared. Some looked concerned. Some uncomfortable. One teenager had their phone out, filming.
Emma's hands trembled as she pulled out her phone. The screen was wet. Her fingers left muddy prints. She dialed Alexander's number.
He answered on the first ring. "Hey, love, how's—"
"Can you pick me up?" Emma's voice cracked. "Something happened."
Check the comments section below for the final Episode...

Cute Baby

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