The woman, experiencing labor pains, called her husband. He, holding his mistress in one arm and his phone in the other, coldly replied, “If it’s a girl, I don’t want to raise her; she’ll only be a burden on the house… Go live with your parents!” Then he hung up.

For a moment, she simply stared at the phone. Then another contraction forced a scream from her throat. She staggered into the hallway, clutching the railing.

Her cry reached Mrs. Thompson, the elderly widow downstairs. Within minutes, the older woman had rushed up, taken one look at Emily’s pale face, and called an ambulance.

While Emily was being carried down the stairs on a stretcher, Jason was nowhere near Seattle.

He was in a luxury hotel in Aspen, stretched across crisp white sheets, a glass of bourbon in hand. Beside him lay Brittany, his young assistant, laughing softly.

“Aren’t you worried?” she teased. “Lying to your pregnant wife like that?”

Jason shrugged.

“She’s fragile. No drive. No spark. You’re different. When you give me a son, I’ll walk away from everything for you.”

He said it easily, as if promises cost nothing.

Meanwhile, Emily fought through hours of agony. Just before dawn, a tiny baby girl entered the world—small, delicate, but breathing.

They named her Grace.

Shortly after giving birth, Emily slipped into unconsciousness from exhaustion.