I never told my husband’s family that I’m the daughter of the Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court. When I was seven months pregnant, they forced me to cook the entire Christmas Eve dinner by myself—the traditional family Christmas dinner. My mother-in-law even made me eat standing up in the kitchen, saying it was “good for the baby.”

Another wave of pain spread through my back and abdomen. I gripped the counter, trying to steady myself.

“Daniel… I really don’t feel well.”

But no one cared.

Margaret followed me into the kitchen moments later, her heels clicking sharply on the marble floor.

“You’re pretending again, aren’t you?” she said coldly. “Always looking for excuses.”

“I’m not pretending,” I whispered, holding my stomach.

Her eyes hardened.

“Stop being dramatic.”

Then she shoved me.

Hard.

My back slammed into the granite counter behind me. The impact knocked the air out of my lungs.

A searing pain exploded through my abdomen.

I gasped, sliding down toward the floor as something warm spread beneath me.

When I looked down, I saw blood.

Bright red.

“My baby…” I whispered in horror.

Daniel rushed into the kitchen, but his expression showed irritation rather than concern.

“Emma, what did you do now?” he muttered.

“I’m bleeding,” I cried. “Please call 911!”

Instead, he grabbed my phone from the counter and threw it against the wall.

The screen shattered instantly.

“No ambulance,” he said firmly. “The neighbors will talk. I just became a senior partner. I’m not ruining my reputation because you’re overreacting.”