My Babies Failed the Crimson Orchid

Three years since I married into the Hawthorne family, I had already lost two children.

And the one who decided whether my babies lived or died wasn't a doctor—it was a potted plant in the manor's living room: the Crimson Orchid.

In this ancient family, if the petals withered and reeked after drinking the pregnancy blood, it was an unbreakable rule: the child had to go.

The first two times, all I could do was lose my children in despair under the anesthetic mask at some underground clinic.

To save my third pregnancy, I secretly went to a top medical center out of state for an amniocentesis.

The diagnosis, there in black and white, proved it: my baby was perfectly healthy and carried the purest family bloodline.

I thought I was safe this time. But when my finger blood dripped into the black soil again, the orchid once more oozed foul-smelling black water.

My in-laws crushed my medical report underfoot without mercy and had their people drag me toward the operating table.

I couldn't understand it: the scientific evidence clearly confirmed my child was healthy and pure-blooded.

Why did they insist on trusting a mutated, stinking flower and killing their own grandchildren over and over again?

"You missed your blood test." My mother-in-law Margaret's voice cut through the air like ice.

Before I could pull back, she grabbed my hand roughly. The blood collection needle pierced my index finger without hesitation.

A single drop of fresh blood fell into the black soil of the plant sitting on the coffee table.

In less than ten seconds, the crimson petals violently turned purplish-black, dissolving into a puddle of rotting sludge that reeked of decaying flesh.

"Rejection reaction." Margaret wiped her hands with disgust.

My father-in-law Conrad, his face stone-cold, pronounced the verdict: "Worthless defect. Have the basement take care of it immediately."

"No! You can't do this!" I broke down completely, my voice cracking as I hurled the report at them. "This is already the third one!"

"The first pregnancy was only six weeks along, and you strapped me to that table without a word! For the second, I got on my knees with stacks of test results, and you wouldn't even look!"

"This time, to save him, I made it all the way to sixteen weeks. I went to another state for the most comprehensive genetic screening available!"

Tears streaming down my face, I jabbed my finger at the test results on the floor:

"It says right there—he's perfectly healthy with the purest family bloodline! Why do you keep clinging to a rotting flower and murdering your own grandchildren?"

But my tearful accusations were met only with chilling indifference.

Just like the previous two times, the scientific evidence meant nothing.

Conrad walked forward without a flicker of emotion, his leather shoe grinding the report into the carpet.

He and Margaret stood side by side, looking down at me.

People say that couples who live together long enough start to look alike. This pair certainly did.

Except right now, their faces only shared one thing: absolute coldness.

"Reports can be faked. The Crimson Orchid doesn't lie." Conrad's eyes were ice. "We don't keep what the orchid rejects."

"When you're told to terminate, you terminate." Margaret's voice was flat. "Take her down."

Four servants immediately grabbed my arms and started dragging me toward the corridor—the one reeking of disinfectant, leading to the underground clinic.

"Let go of me!" I thrashed desperately, instinctively searching for my husband Adrian.

But the manor was empty. He was nowhere.

A chill shot up my spine as the realization hit—

That's why last night Conrad insisted on sending Adrian to Europe overnight, claiming some "urgent business crisis."

They'd been planning this. They'd isolated me completely.

To eliminate the child inside me, they'd already cut off every escape route.

The crushing weight of it broke something inside me.

This was my third child. He'd been growing inside me for four whole months. Was he really going to be torn from me on that cold operating table?

As the iron door to the basement drew closer, pure terror forced out my last desperate attempt.

I suddenly arched my body and clawed at the wooden handrail, fingers hooking into the grain.

"Please!" I screamed, my voice raw. "I'm begging you both!" My nails dug into the wood until they bled. "That flower doesn't prove anything! My baby is innocent—just let me keep him!"

But no matter how I sobbed and begged, Conrad simply walked over and pried my fingers off the handrail one by one, his face completely blank.

"We already dealt with the first two. Why can't you just accept it?" Margaret's tone was almost bored. "This one's getting taken care of—end of discussion."

As my last finger was forced loose, I was yanked toward that black iron door like a discarded doll.

I squeezed my eyes shut, certain this third child would be lost forever—

"What the hell are you doing?! Let her go!"

The front door slammed open, and a familiar voice shattered the silence of the hallway.

Then came a heavy thud—something solid hitting the floor in the entryway.

My eyes flew open. I whipped my head around.

Standing in the doorway, backlit and drenched, was my mother, Hilary.

For the first time tonight, I wasn't alone.