The night before I gave birth, I overheard my husband secretly offer the doctor $500,000 to make sure I died during delivery so he could start a new life with his five-month-pregnant mistress. I pretended to be asleep—but by the next day, his plan had completely backfired.

Daniel lowered his voice.

“Tomorrow needs to look natural.”

Dr. Hale said nothing.

Daniel continued.

“Everyone already knows childbirth can go wrong.”

My throat tightened.

The baby shifted inside me.

I pressed one hand beneath the blanket.

I wanted to reassure her.

I wanted to reassure myself.

Dr. Hale finally spoke.

“You understand what you’re asking.”

“I understand exactly.”

“And if something goes wrong with the baby?”

Daniel hesitated.

That hesitation told me everything.

For nine months, he had played the devoted father.

He assembled the crib.

He attended prenatal appointments.

He argued over baby names.

He placed his hand against my stomach every night and smiled when our daughter kicked.

Now he sounded irritated.

“The baby should be fine.”

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Should.

Not must.

Not protect her.