Chapter 1Three days after giving birth. I need formula money.
Rhett drops a mystery box in front of me.
"Go ahead, babe. Your turn."
Three years of this crap. My allowance? Whatever I get lucky with. Best pull ever? $108.
Started at our engagement—Dad turned the $108k wedding money into a game. Rhett pulled $1.88 million. Paid every penny. Threw me this huge wedding everyone's still talking about.
They all thought he was obsessed with me.
Day after the honeymoon, he slams down a box: "Your dad loves his little games, huh? Well congrats—now you get to play for everything."
Then my sister posts: Baby gift from Rhett—$990k.
I dialed overseas.
"You said you'd be his father, right? Seven days. Come get us."
---
I'm opening the mystery box when the nurse leans over.
"Aww, hubby surprise? Girl, that's adorable!"
She's grinning at the pile like it's some romantic gesture.
Then she sees the slip—$9.90 living expenses.
The smile dies.
Rhett doesn't even blink as his assistant starts packing up the boxes. His voice comes out flat.
"Rules are rules. Kid doesn't change that."
The nurse's jaw works like she wants to say something. Her face screams are you serious right now?
She's probably dying to ask what kind of twisted rule makes a woman who just gave birth gamble for ten bucks.
But how would I even begin to explain?
That my parents swapped my $108k wedding money for mystery boxes without telling me—all to fund my sister's house and dowry?
That when I confronted them, Mom grabbed her chest and threatened to jump if I told Rhett?
That his family's been blackballing me from every job since, so now I literally gamble for grocery money?
I glance down at my daughter sleeping next to me.
Her tiny face is scrunched up, but she looks peaceful.
"Rhett… can we get a sleep sack? The temperature-regulating kind? Newborns can't—"
"Oh, so now you're using the baby to squeeze me for cash?"
He doesn't let me finish.
"Hospital's got blankets."
The door slams shut.
His footsteps echo down the hallway until they fade completely.
The nurse suddenly disappears.
When she comes back, she's holding a small blanket.
"We keep spares at the station. It's clean—here, let me help."
She tucks it around my daughter so gently, adjusting the corners with more care than her own father showed.
A complete stranger doing more for my baby than the man who's supposed to love her.
"Thank you."
She hesitates. "Maybe… maybe he just doesn't know how to show he cares?"
I manage a smile, say nothing.
That night I'm scrolling through my phone.
My sister Marlowe's latest post pops up.
VIP nursery suite. Every piece of baby gear imported, top-of-the-line.
Caption: "He said our baby deserves only the best."
The likes are rolling in.
Rhett's name is right there. My mom's. My dad's. All of them.
I stare at those words—deserves only the best—until they blur.
Years ago, Rhett told me, "If we have a daughter someday, I'll spoil her rotten. Make her the happiest little girl alive."
Back then his eyes had this light in them.
Now that light's shining on someone else's child.
I fold up the $9.90 slip and slide it into my wallet, right next to last month's $6.60 and the $5.30 from the month before that.
When I look up, Rhett's standing in the doorway.
No idea when he came back.
He watches me fold the slip.
"Just focus on the kid. Stop trying to milk me for money."
He walks back into the hallway and makes a phone call.
The door's still cracked open—I can hear every word.
"You lost the bet. She didn't throw a fit." He laughs. "Gold diggers don't give up being Mrs. Grayson that easy. Especially not when there's a baby in the picture."
I lean my head back and close my eyes.
My phone buzzes.
International number.
Then: "Booked your tickets. Seven days. Be ready."
I don't respond.
He tries again.
"Hannah. I'm coming for you."
I look at my daughter.
She's still asleep, her little fist wrapped tight around my finger.
"Okay."
Chapter 2
Discharge day. I'm packed before sunrise.
My daughter Emma's wearing her only new outfit—gift from my best friend.
I sit there holding her, waiting for Rhett.
What I get is a text.
"Driver's picking you up. I'm with Marlowe, she's getting discharged and there's nobody there."
Not surprising. Still stings.
Ever since my sister's husband died, Rhett's been real helpful with her.
I stare at the message for a second, then close it without replying.
The driver shows up on time. The car's spotless.
Emma starts fussing. She's hungry.
I reach for the bottle. The driver glances at me in the mirror, looking uncomfortable.
"Ma'am, I'm really sorry, but... Mr. Grayson doesn't want any food in the car."
I freeze.
"It's just a bottle. For the baby. I won't spill anything."
"I know, I know, but he was super clear about it. Please, I don't wanna get fired over this."
Fine.
I shove the bottle back and pull Emma closer.
She screams the whole way home while I rub her back until my arm goes numb.
First thing when we get back, I check my phone.
Marlowe posted a video.
She's riding shotgun in Rhett's car, shoving cherries in her mouth. Juice everywhere—seats, dashboard, dripping down her chin.
Rhett's driving, keeps glancing over with this stupid grin on his face.
My parents are in back. Mom's feeding Marlowe's baby while Dad holds a towel, smiling so big his eyes disappear.
One big happy family.
I scroll past.
That afternoon, the doorbell rings.
Marlowe's standing there with her baby—fat, healthy, perfect.
She cranes her neck to look past me, spots the crib in the living room.
She laughs.
"Oh my God, Hannah. That crib's like... super old. Wait, isn't Rhett supposed to be rich?"
I don't answer.
She digs around in her bag, pulls out some clothes.
"Oh! Here, take these. My baby grew out of them already. I mean, they're used, but whatever, right? The fabric's really nice."
"Rhett got them. Like two grand each or something."
She looks down at Emma.
That smile doesn't budge.
"Wow. She's so... skinny."
I take the bag and choke out a thanks.
I shut the door and throw the whole thing straight in the trash.
That night, Lydia calls.
"Okay, I just saw that video and I wanna throw my phone! She's doing that on purpose! And Rhett? You literally almost died having his kid and he's treating you like garbage!"
"Look, whatever you need for Emma, you tell me right now. I'll get it. I'm serious."
"Lydia... thanks."
"Girl, don't even. You're my number one. Period."
My throat gets tight. At least someone gives a damn.
After we hang up, I start packing.
Couple outfits for me and Emma, our IDs, everything goes in a small bag. I hide it way in the back of the closet.
I don't even hear Rhett come in.
He's just suddenly there, leaning in the doorway, watching me.
He laughs. Not a nice laugh.
"You want money for clothes? Just say it. Don't do the whole poor-me thing."
I don't turn around.
He walks over, wraps his arms around me from behind. His chin lands on top of my head.
Alcohol smell hits me hard. His voice goes all soft.
"Come on, babe. Knock it off."
For a second, I'm back in time.
Years ago, he held me exactly like this.
I'd been stuck in the rain, got super sick. He drove all night just to get home to me.
Pulled me close and whispered, "You don't ever wait in the rain by yourself again. You hear me?"
Now? Same arms. Same warmth.
Only he's wasted.
The guy who drove through the night can't even show up when his own daughter gets discharged from the hospital.
I pull his hands off gently.
"I'm not doing anything."
3 AM. Emma's screaming.
I pick her up to feed her. She tries for like ten seconds, then cries even harder.
Not enough milk.
I rip through every single cabinet. No formula anywhere.
I check my phone.
Balance: $9.90.
3:10.
3:30.
4:00.
She won't stop.
I'm pacing the living room with her, just walking in circles, back and forth.
Rhett's door is closed. He's dead asleep.
I kiss her forehead.
"I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so, so sorry."
"Just hold on a few more days. We're getting out of here. I swear."
Chapter 3
Emma's burning up. 103.6°F.
I'm running through the ER with her, trying to sign in, but my hands won't stop shaking.
The doctor pulls off his stethoscope. His face says it all.
"This baby's seriously malnourished. Her weight's way too low. Immune system's basically shot."
He looks right at me, pissed off.
"You realize how dangerous this is? What the hell's going on at home?"
I can't even get words out.
What's going on?
The two of us are living on less than ten bucks. For the entire month.
I call Rhett.
He actually shows up.
For one stupid second, I think maybe he gives a damn.
Three years married. First time I've ever straight-up begged.
"Emma needs special formula. Supplements. Can we just... can we please stop with these stupid boxes? Just give me normal money. That's all I'm asking."
He stares at me, then whips out a card and flicks it at me.
"Two thousand. Done."
"That's not gonna be enough. She needs more tests and—"
His face goes dark.
"Are you KIDDING me right now? I gave your family almost TWO MILLION and you're STILL bleeding me? Two grand's suddenly not good enough?"
"You know what? Maybe you should've thought about that before your family ran their little scam on me."
"IT WASN'T ME!"
Something in me just snaps. For Emma, I finally lose it.
"My parents did it! They went behind my back! They needed cash for Marlowe's wedding, for her house! I didn't know ANYTHING about it!"
Rhett freezes for like half a second.
Then he laughs.
"Oh wow. Just... WOW. There's literally nothing you won't say if there's money involved, huh?"
"First you fake some big emergency. Now you're making up fairy tales."
He's looking at me like I'm actual trash.
"Popping out a kid doesn't give you some magic card. You really think I'm that dumb? Like I can't tell you're lying just to squeeze more money out of me?"
His phone goes off.
Screen says Sweetie.
He picks up and boom—his whole voice changes.
"Hey babe! Oh, you're already here? Which room you in? I'll be there in like two seconds."
He hangs up. Doesn't even glance my way. Just turns around and walks.
Oh.
Right.
He's not here for me and Emma.
He's here 'cause Marlowe's baby has a checkup.
I'm standing in this hallway with my daughter screaming her head off, watching him walk away like we're invisible.
Hospital entrance.
"Hannah!"
Marlowe's voice floats over all sweet.
Her baby looks like a magazine ad—chubby, healthy, head-to-toe designer everything.
She glances at Emma. All bones. Pale as a ghost. Sick.
Something crosses her face but it's gone quick.
Then she's digging through her nanny's massive diaper bag.
"Oh my gosh! Here, you should totally take this! We have like way too much, we can't even use it all."
She pauses, all dramatic.
"Rhett felt SO bad for us, you know? Me and the baby all alone. So he bought us like a HUNDRED cases. Can you believe that?"
I'm staring at that can.
Eighteen hundred bucks.
Emma's entire monthly budget wouldn't even buy one serving of what her kid drinks every day.
I ball my hands into fists so tight my nails cut into my palms.
Take it anyway.
That night I call my mom.
"Mom. They're keeping Emma overnight. Can you please help me out? I need money."
Dead silence for a few seconds.
"Your sister just had a baby too, you know. She's got bills to pay. Why don't you ask that rich husband of yours?"
"Mom, please, I'm literally begging you—"
"Look, I gotta go. You calling all the time is stressing Marlowe out. She needs her rest."
Click.
Middle of the night. I crash on the couch with Emma in my arms.
Somewhere in there, a blanket appears over me.
Through barely-open eyes, I catch Rhett bending down over us, moving super gentle, like he's terrified of waking us up.
Next morning though?
Brand new stack of mystery boxes sitting on the kitchen counter.
He's across from me with his coffee, nodding his chin at them.
"Go on. Your turn."
I look at those boxes.
I'm just... empty. Done.
"Rhett. I can't. I'm so tired. I just can't do this anymore."
His coffee cup freezes halfway to his mouth.
He looks at me with these cold, calculating eyes.
"So what's the angle this time? Last time it was the whole sick baby thing. What's today's act?"
I don't say anything.
Just turn around and start making Emma a bottle with the formula Marlowe handed me like charity.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Text from Lydia. "Okay so... I don't really know if I should say anything but..."
Typing dots appear.
Emma starts wailing from the living room.
I grab the thermometer.
104.2°F.
I kill my phone, scoop her up, and bolt.
