That afternoon, I forced myself out of bed. They wheeled me past the NICU again—this time on purpose. I begged the orderly to stop, even if only for a moment. He hesitated when he saw the desperation in my eyes, then slowed down.

A doctor stepped out, exhaustion carved into her face.

“Mr. Whitmore, your wife is critical,” she said, lowering her mask. “She needs—”

“I’m not her husband anymore,” Alexander cut in, snapping his leather folder shut with a sound like a gunshot in the hallway. His voice was calm, almost bored. “Update her family.”

“I… don’t understand,” the doctor stammered. “There’s no other family listed.”

Alexander paused for half a second, checked the time on his luxury watch, then nodded as if that solved everything.

“Then update the file.”

He turned and walked away, polished shoes tapping a cold rhythm across the floor of the private hospital in Mexico City—passing photos of smiling newborns and hopeful parents that seemed to mock the transaction he’d just completed. Behind him, three tiny babies fought for air inside clear incubators, practically fatherless.

By the next morning, I would wake up divorced, uninsured, and legally defenseless. Meanwhile, Alexander rode the elevator down to the underground parking garage where his black Mercedes waited, engine running.

He checked his phone. A message from Isabella Knox lit up the screen:

Is it done?

He replied with a single word:

Yes.