Chapter 2

Maren's POV

"Why on earth are you gaslighting me with Elias's family?!"

"Did they threaten you? Buy you off? Sloane, you're an executive at Devereux—you're actually letting them forge my medical records?!"

"Maren, have you had enough?" Sloane stood up abruptly, her sharp tailored suit amplifying her intimidating aura. "Gaslighting? I'm your sister. Do you really think I'd team up with the Hartleys to put on a show just to trick you?"

"Then why won't you admit Juno exists?!" I screamed, pointing at my heavily pregnant belly.

"Because there is no Juno in there."

Something chilling churned in Sloane's eyes—a mix of irritation and pity: "Listen to yourself. Since losing that baby two years ago, you dove headfirst into a fantasy and never came out. You live in an obsession, and now you blame everyone who loves and worries about you?"

"You're lying..." I trembled, taking a step back.

"Wake up, Maren! You’ve turned the whole family upside down, just to prove the existence of a baby that isn't real!"

No. This wasn't right.

I stared at her, then suddenly spun around, shoved the double doors open, and darted out.

"Where are you going!" Sloane barked behind me.

"To get proof!"

Relying on memories from my past life, I carried my heavy belly straight to the VIP maternity clinic on the third floor. Nurses backed away as I barged through. I rushed into an empty ultrasound room, grabbed the gel, smeared it on my stomach, and forced a terrified sonographer to print a report on the spot.

Minutes later, I ripped the printout from the machine.

The report was crystal clear: Single live intrauterine pregnancy, 39 weeks, fetal heart rate 145 bpm.

Tears crashed down my face. I gripped the paper tightly—It was real. I was right.

I turned and sprinted back to the corridor. Sloane was marching toward me with several security guards, frowning, scanning the area for me.

"Look! Look closely!"

I slapped the report hard against her chest, my voice completely hoarse. "39 weeks, normal heart rate! Medical data doesn't lie, Sloane. What excuse do you have now?!"

Sloane looked down, her eyes scanning the paper.

The entire corridor fell dead silent. I stared at her lips, waiting for this absurd lie to be exposed in public.

But she just sighed and looked up, her eyes looking at me as if I were a hopelessly insane patient.

"Maren." she pushed the paper back to me, enunciating every word, "It says right here—No signs of pregnancy in the uterus. Consistent with pseudocyesis."

"Bullshit!"

I snatched the paper back, pulling so hard I tore a corner off. I stared down at it—in black and white, it clearly stated "Single live intrauterine pregnancy"!

"Has your hallucination really gotten this bad?" Sloane's voice suddenly spiked, sharp and pained. "First you fabricate a pregnancy, and now you're hallucinating words—come with me to the psychiatric ward, right now!"

"You're lying! The report says I have a baby!"

Unable to hold on any longer, I pushed Sloane aside and stopped a group of passing doctors.

"Doctor, you read it!" Like grasping at straws, I shoved the paper into the lead doctor's face, tapping the line text with my finger. "Read it out loud—does it say 39 weeks pregnant!?"

The doctor paused, examined it for a moment, and spoke in a professional yet pitying tone:

"Mrs. Hartley, this says: No signs of pregnancy on ultrasound."

"Impossible!" I grabbed a random young resident standing nearby like a madwoman. "You read it! Tell me what this actually says!"

"Ma'am, please calm down..." The young doctor flinched back, his voice shaking. "The ultrasound... it says pseudocyesis."

"Liars! You're all in on it!"

I roared in a complete breakdown. Bystanders and patients stopped, staring at me like a monster. Seeing me waving the paper and losing all control, several pregnant women terrifyingly shielded their bumps and backed into the corners.

Everyone kept their distance.

I held a piece of paper that clearly said "pregnant" in black and white, yet the entire world was united in reading it as a blank space.

"Maren."

A deep, raspy, and heartbroken male voice pierced through the noisy corridor.

I froze.

At the end of the hall, Elias, wearing his dark blue commercial pilot uniform, strode toward me without even dropping his luggage. His eyes were red, filled with "guilt" and "love."

But when he stood in front of me, his gaze bypassed my stomach entirely, as if nothing was there. He spoke with a suffocating tenderness: "I'm so sorry, honey. It's my fault for flying so many international routes and not realizing how sick you really were. Let's go see a psychiatrist, okay?"