Margaret Whitmore entered like a storm.
Wrapped in a fur coat, heels clicking sharply against the polished floor, her presence immediately filled the room with tension. Her perfume—strong, expensive, suffocating—followed her like a warning.
Her eyes scanned the suite.
Then narrowed.
“A VIP recovery room?” she scoffed. “Unbelievable.”
She stepped closer, her gaze cold and cutting.
“My son works himself to exhaustion, and this is how you repay him? Living like a queen while contributing nothing?”
I didn’t answer.
I had learned long ago that responding only fed her.
But today… I was too tired to pretend.
“I just gave birth to your grandchildren,” I said quietly.
“That doesn’t make you special,” she snapped.
Then, without warning, she kicked the edge of my hospital bed.
Pain exploded through my abdomen.
I gasped, instinctively curling inward to protect my incision.
Margaret didn’t even flinch.
Instead, she reached into her designer bag and pulled out a stack of papers, tossing them onto my tray.
“Sign these.”
I blinked, disoriented. “What… is this?”
“A Parental Rights Waiver,” she said casually. “Karen can’t have children. It’s tragic, really. But now we have a solution.”
My stomach dropped.
“You’re giving her one of the twins.”
The room went cold.
“No,” I said immediately, my voice shaking but firm. “Absolutely not.”
Margaret rolled her eyes, as if I were being unreasonable.
“Don’t be dramatic. You can barely take care of yourself, let alone two infants. Karen will raise him properly. You can keep the girl.”
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