Birthright Betrayal Chapter 1

Returning with the birth certificate, I paused at the ward door. Through the gap, I saw Desmond gently remove our newborn’s hospital band. Curiosity stirred.

As I moved to enter, my blood froze—he was swapping blankets between our daughter and another baby. A sweet voice then spoke: "Desmond, I’ll treat your daughter as my own."

He gazed at Seraphina Lowell—his unattainable "white moonlight"—with unbearable tenderness. "She’ll have a complete home. I’ll be her father now."

Clutching Anya’s birth certificate, icy despair filled me. What about our daughter?

Inside, Desmond cradled Seraphina's baby with such profound care, his eyes overflowing with an affection and devotion that had never once been bestowed upon me or our child. That gentle, focused, loving gaze had never fallen on us, not once in our entire marriage. In that excruciating moment, the warmth and love on his face felt like a sharp, unforgiving blade. I didn't even have time to think; an indescribable, searing pain tore through me, as if my heart had been gouged out, leaving nothing but raw, exposed flesh.

I lowered my gaze, staring blankly at the crisp new birth certificate, at our daughter’s name: Anya Grant. My vision blurred, from sharp clarity to a hazy distortion. Even her name, Anya, meaning 'grace' or 'favor,' seemed to secretly mourn their love, a silent monument to what they shared. Only then, belatedly, did the crushing realization hit me: Desmond Grant didn't love me. And equally, he didn't love our daughter. Not even this child, whom I had carried for ten months, enduring a night of excruciating labor to bring into the world.

This shattering truth sent tremors through me. I couldn't even stand steady, forced to press myself against the cold, sterile wall for support, gasping for breath.

From the ward, Desmond’s husky voice reached my ears again, heavy with emotion: "Seraphina, the regret of our love, unfulfilled and separated, we will atone for it through this child. My first half of life was for you; the latter half will be for her. She is the last thread connecting us, our final, bittersweet bond."

The regret of a love unfulfilled, you say? A bitter, self-mocking laugh, choked and dry, escaped me. Why must your regret be compensated by sacrificing my daughter’s entire life? A compensation at the cruel expense of another. My love for him withered, replaced by an unspeakable disappointment, laced with a bitter, simmering hatred that took root deep within my heart.

I wiped away the tears streaming down my face, slowly pushing myself off the wall, gathering what little composure I had left. Then, with a chilling resolve, I pushed the door open, abruptly interrupting the intimate tableau unfolding within.

Desmond’s face immediately darkened upon seeing me, his tone sharp with displeasure. "What took you so long? Is that how a mother behaves?" he snapped, his voice echoing in the too-quiet room. "Joanna Grant, can't you learn from Seraphina? Her eyes haven't left the baby for a single second!"

I lowered my head, masking the disappointment and profound pain swirling in my eyes. In Desmond's eyes, I had always fallen short compared to Seraphina. Even though he knew perfectly well I had just been out getting our daughter's birth certificate. Living in adjacent apartments before, he had constantly compared me to Seraphina, his every word subtly praising her virtues. Blind as I was, I'd never once noticed the veiled intimacy between them.

My gaze fell on Seraphina, who was still holding the baby she believed was hers. I forced a grim, almost feral smile, a cold hatred gathering in my eyes. The baby Seraphina was cradling was undeniably my Anya!

Sensing my intense stare, Seraphina shifted, subtly shielding the baby from my view. Just then, the baby in Desmond's arms — the one he believed was Seraphina's — suddenly burst into loud, wailing sobs. This time, he didn't immediately blame me. Instead, he held the infant close, murmuring soft words of comfort, his expression contorted with concern. Our daughter had been born three days ago, and he hadn't even reached out to hold her once! Yet now, as he looked down, whispering to this stranger's baby, he radiated the tender glow of fatherhood. So this was the stark difference between love and indifference.

I stared at him, transfixed, my mind a battlefield of warring thoughts. Suddenly, a daring, desperate idea took root.

Seraphina turned to me, offering a brittle, bitter smile. "Little one was born without a father," she began, her voice laced with feigned sorrow. "Seeing you three, a happy family, it just... it doesn't feel right in my heart." She spoke words of self-pity, yet in her eyes, an undeniable smugness shimmered, impossible to conceal.

Desmond looked up, his anguish palpable, his eyes slightly reddened. "Seraphina…" he whispered, as if her pain were his own.

I dug my nails into my palms, the sharp sting a welcome distraction from the emotional agony, pulling me back from my daze. Across the room, Seraphina sighed deeply, then carried Anya, my Anya, to another bed. I took a deep, shaky breath, forcing down the bitter ache in my chest, and reached out, intending to take the baby from Desmond's arms and comfort her. "Darling," I said, my voice carefully neutral, "is the baby hungry? I'll go get some water to prepare her formula."