The woman, overwhelmed by labor pains, tried calling her husband. He answered while holding his mistress in one arm, his phone in the other, his tone cold and detached. “If it’s a girl, I’m not raising her. She’ll just clutter up the house… Go stay with your parents.” Then he ended the call. The next day, when he returned home, what he found shook him completely.

She stared at the phone in disbelief until another contraction forced a cry from her throat, and she stumbled into the hallway while clutching the railing for support. Her voice reached Mrs. Carter, the elderly widow downstairs, and within minutes the older woman rushed up, saw Hannah’s pale face, and immediately called an ambulance.

While Hannah was carried down the stairs on a stretcher, Andrew was nowhere near Portland. He was inside a luxury hotel in Aspen, lying across clean white sheets with a glass of bourbon in his hand, while beside him lay his young assistant Ashley, laughing softly.

“Are you not worried at all,” she asked playfully, “you are lying to your pregnant wife without even thinking twice.”

Andrew shrugged without concern and said, “She has no energy and no ambition, but you are different, and when you give me a son I will leave everything for you.”

He spoke as if promises had no value, while far away Hannah endured hours of pain. Just before sunrise, a tiny baby girl was born, fragile yet alive, and they named her Faith.

Shortly after giving birth, Hannah lost consciousness from exhaustion.