What She Carried Wasn't a Baby

Sloane's POV

That "poor pregnant woman" downstairs is currently waddling around Linden Court with her forty-week baby bump, sobbing to the neighbors. She claims the noise of me screwing men in the middle of the night is so loud it's killing her unborn baby.

In my past life, no one in this building believed me. In the end, she used a pair of rusty pruning shears to pin me, dead, to my own living room floor.

Reborn into a new life, I stare at the bulletin board where my face is crossed out with red marker, and I let out a cold laugh.

This time, I absolutely refuse to be the idiot who gets stabbed to death.

The moment I stepped into the ground-floor lobby of Linden Court, four or five gazes sliced into me like razor blades.

Nailed to the center of the bulletin board was a photo of me.

My face was aggressively crossed out in red marker, accompanied by a warning letter printed in bold font:

"Sloane Merrick in 602 fucks a different man every goddamn night—the noise keeps the entire floor awake! Your disgusting moaning is killing my unborn baby! If I lose one more night of sleep because of you, I swear I'll make you regret it!"

It was signed by Marlena from 502, the "fragile" pregnant woman who claimed to be at forty weeks.

The red ink glared at me. A chill seeped from my bones, instantly crawling over my skin.

I didn’t die?

My fingers were still trembling. I pinched my wrist hard, the stinging pain rushing to my brain. I had been reborn.

Memories of my past life flooded back. The exact same death threat, the exact same slut-shaming. In my previous life, I had panicked, desperately trying to explain to everyone in the building: I’ve lived alone in Ravenhill for two years, there was no man, and definitely no midnight sex noises.

But no one believed me.

I sought out Hollis, the building manager, who just waved me off and told me to "have some sympathy for a pregnant woman." I called 911, and the cops stood in the hallway without even stepping inside, shrugging it off: "Ma'am, noise complaints are a civil issue. We can't do anything." I even went to court for a Temporary Restraining Order (TRO), but the judge threw it out, stating, "The respondent is a high-risk pregnant woman and poses no actual physical threat."

I had backed down, thinking if I just ignored her, it would blow over.

Half a month later, at dusk, Marlena, hauling that massive belly, kicked open my unlocked door like a rabid demon. Gripping a pair of rusty gardening shears, she used her body weight to pin me to the hardwood floor.

The shears plunged into my neck and chest. Once, twice, dozens of times. Blood sprayed across the white living room walls like a fountain.

I convulsed in a pool of blood. My windpipe was severed; I couldn't even scream. Marlena, hands dripping with my blood, stood on my stomach with a maniacal grin and shrieked hysterically, "You bitch! You killed my baby! You're going to pay for my child's life!"

Right up until my last breath, I never understood—how exactly did I kill her child?

"Look at her, showing zero remorse."

A spiteful voice yanked me back to reality. Bryony, a neighbor pushing a stroller, stood in the corner of the lobby, glaring at me with disgust. "Sloane, it's one thing if you're horny all night, but how could you push a woman who's literally about to pop to the point of putting up posters? Marlena could give birth any second. If something happens, can you take responsibility?"

"Exactly! You have no shame!" Desmond, a retired firefighter, marched over, spitting as he pointed at my nose. "We've lived in Linden Court for over a decade and never seen a lying tramp like you. Marlena stays home crying every day because of you. If you make another peep, she won't even have to do anything—as the neighborhood watch captain, I'll kick you out myself!"

Looking at these self-righteous faces, a wave of utterly absurd fury exploded in my chest.

Bullshit. Absolute bullshit.

I hadn't even let a male cat into my apartment, let alone a man. Who was making all this noise with me at midnight, a ghost?

The agonizing pain of my throat being sliced open still vaguely throbbed. Marlena's face, covered in my blood, was a hellish shadow I couldn't shake.

Reborn to live again, did they really expect me to swallow my pride? Did they expect me to politely prove my innocence to these brain-dead neighbors?

Dream on.

I shoved Desmond out of my way and, ignoring his furious curses, strode right up to the building's front desk.

Ignoring the old security guard's shocked expression, I grabbed the emergency intercom mic—which connected to every floor in the twelve-story building—and viciously slammed the red 'All-Building Broadcast' button.

Gripping the mic, my voice ripped through every speaker like rolling thunder, crashing into every apartment:

"Marlena Ashford in 502, perk up your ears and listen closely!"

"First—I live alone. There is absolutely no man in my apartment!"

"Second—There's no heartbeat in your stomach! Your baby is already dead!"