Chapter 3

Even the best-laid plans go awry. I had underestimated Silas's impatience.

There were still two days left before my anticipated "danger day."

That afternoon, a torrential downpour swept across New York.

I sat on the living room sofa, flipping through a parenting book. Silas, in a rare break from his routine, hadn't gone to the office; instead, he was in the open kitchen making borscht for me.

"Maeve, taste this and see if it's right," he said, walking over with a small porcelain bowl. He scooped a spoonful, blew on it, and brought it to my lips.

His movements were so natural—so effortless that I had absolutely no reason to decline.

Besides, he had ladled it straight from the pot right in front of my eyes.

I took a sip. It was rich and flavorful, with no strange aftertaste.

"It's delicious," I said with a smile.

"Then have some more. You've gotten too thin lately." He turned back to the kitchen, scooped a large bowl, and placed it on the coffee table in front of me.

I picked up the bowl and drank slowly. However, less than ten minutes later, a bizarre, suffocating heaviness began creeping outward from the back of my head.

Something was wrong.

My vision blurred. The spoon slipped from my grip, hitting the floor with a sharp clatter.

I jerked my head up to look at Silas.

He was standing behind the kitchen island, hands braced against the countertop, watching me in dead silence.

He didn't rush over when the spoon dropped. The tenderness on his face had completely vanished.

"Silas..." I tried to cry out for help, but my tongue was completely numb.

My eyelids grew heavier and heavier.

"Go to sleep, Maeve." Those were the last four words I heard before I lost consciousness.

I don't know how much time passed, but I felt like I was thrashing in thick mud.

My body ached as if it had been run over by a truck. My lower abdomen, in particular, throbbed with a tearing, dull pain.

My eyes flew open.

Blinding white lights. The sharp scent of antiseptic. A stark white ceiling.

I was lying in a hospital bed.

Almost entirely on pure instinct, my hands shot toward my stomach as if jolted by electricity.

Flat.

Completely flat. It even felt somewhat sunken from the sudden loss of muscle tension.

"Ah—!" I let out a harrowing, blood-curdling scream.

The hospital room door flew open, and Silas rushed in.

"Maeve! You're finally awake!" He threw himself at the bedside, pulling me into a tight embrace. "Thank God!"

"My baby... where is my baby?!" I gripped his collar in a death grip, my nails practically digging into his flesh.

Silas stiffened for a second before slowly letting me go.

"Maeve, what are you talking about?" His voice trembled as tears rolled down his cheeks. "We... we never had a baby."

Here it comes.

The exact same words from my previous life, with the exact same expression.

"You're lying! I was clearly seven months pregnant! You even cooked soup for me yesterday!" I pounded the bed wildly, screaming hysterically.

"Maeve, calm down!" Silas grabbed my wrists. "You did get pregnant six months ago, but you suffered an accidental miscarriage at two months. The shock was too much, and you've been hallucinating that you're still pregnant. Dr. Vance says it's called pseudocyesis. You fainted suddenly at home yesterday, and you've been unconscious for a whole day!"

"Liars! You're all liars!" I struggled to get out of bed, but I was so weak I didn't even have the strength to stand.

Right then, Dr. Vance walked in with two nurses.

"Maeve, please try to control your emotions." Dr. Vance pulled out a thick medical file. "These are your medical records from the past six months. It is clearly documented that you had a D&C procedure in April. Your so-called seven-month pregnancy is entirely a physiological response triggered by psychological suggestion."

I stared at those medical records, cold sweat drenching my hospital gown.

If I hadn't been reborn, if I hadn't preserved those pieces of evidence, I would have completely shattered right now, believing I had truly lost my mind.

But I knew they were faking it.

I stopped struggling and panted heavily, my eyes locked dead onto the digital clock on the wall.

The date read: October 15.

Before I passed out, it was October 14. According to their timeline, I had only been unconscious for one day.

Was that really the case?

I lowered my head, and under the cover of my disheveled hair, my gaze darted to the inside of my left wrist.

Right before I drank that bowl of soup, I had pinched my nails fiercely into my skin there, leaving a deep, bleeding scratch.

But at this moment, the skin was as smooth as ever.

No scabs, no faint pink marks, not even the thinnest trace of a scar.

The wound had healed entirely, as if it had never existed in the first place.

Given normal human metabolism, it was absolutely impossible for a gash that deep to completely heal, blend perfectly back into a natural skin tone, and leave zero traces in a mere twenty-four hours.

My mind buzzed violently.

I finally realized exactly what was going on.

I finally understood why my baby was gone from my womb, yet they claimed I had never even been pregnant!