Chapter 2 – I Was Never Yours, Mr. Billionaire

Chapter 2: Waking Up

The operating room was cold when Vichy woke up again. She felt ropes around her wrists and ankles. The cold knife sliced her abdomen, her hand grabbed the sheets, and she looked at the surgical light unconsciously, and eventually closed her eyes in exhaustion.

Her kids were gone.

Some time passed.

“Miss Hill?”

Her sticky eyelids reluctantly opened and tears streamed from her tired eyes. Still alive. She laughed. She touched her belly out of habit. Flat.

Her roommate, Moore, was worried about her and sighed “Miss Hall, please get up and drink some water. You’ve been out cold for two days. I was worried I would have to call the doctor.”

Vichy’s entire body shook at the utterance of the word “doctor.”

She could smell the disinfectant water, see the hospital’s lights, and feel the cold scalpel.

Vichy asked, “Did you already know that he wanted to kill my children?”

She looked at Moore, eyes red but empty of tears. Empty of everything.

Moore raised her hands, wiped Vichy’s eyes, sighed, and asked, “Do you want to eat something?”

It was then that Vichy realized Moore knew too.

Moore put out sandwiches for Vichy, enticing her with known favourites. She left them out, waiting, and sliced them into halves when Vichy wouldn’t touch them. She brought olives and placed them on skewers. Vichy still didn’t touch them.

Moore turned on the TV. There was an interview. The person being interviewed was Gim.

Before she could change the channel, Vichy took the remote.

Knuckles white, she gripped the remote as she watched.

He wore a tailored suit, perfectly ironed, eyes deep and dark, nose straight and narrow. He was just standing there.

The reporters asked him about the company, and asked him when he planned to get married. But no one asked him what happened in the hospital that day; no one asked who was forced to have an abortion.

“Would you like to change the channel?” Moore asked sympathetically.

But Vichy held onto the remote and stared straight at the TV.

No one remembered her, no one asked about her. Her children were dead, and no one knew they had even existed.

Gim kept silent for a while, and looked into the camera. His voice was quite low, “I am preparing the wedding next month, with my fiancée, Sherly Lynn.”

When he called that name, his eyes were noticeably softer, and the voice was unconsciously gentle, with a little tenderness.

Vichy breathed sharply.

Sherly was his fiancée.

Vichy had spent two years with Gim, and bore two of his children. In the end, she had been a tool.

She heard mocking laughter, it rang in her ears, though no one was laughing around her.

Moore hurriedly turned off the TV. “Drink some tea, this is your favorite drink.”

“The two children, they both died, right?”

Vichy suddenly looked up, her eyes were red and unfocused.

She knew the answer, but still asked the question.

But what if one of them was still alive?

Moore sighed and put the food in front of her, she said softly and comforted her. “You can have children later.” But even as she said this, Moore knew this likely wouldn’t happen.

“Where are you going?”

Vichy struggled to stand up, put on her slippers and walked out.

“I just want to go back and look at my children. I haven’t seen them yet. Please.” Vichy said weakly.

This wasn’t the Vichy Moore knew and loved. She needed more time.

“Maybe we should wait for Mr. Hall to come back,” said Moore.

“Will he come back?” Vichy sneered. “He has to take care of his fiancée. He will not think of me. I will just go and see my children and I will come back soon. Please.”

Vichy could still imagine the feeling of the blade across her stomach.

“Fine, but you must come back soon. It is likely your children have been sent away. Generally, unborn children will not have a graveyard,” Moore said with a sigh.

The tradition here had always been like this. Unborn children could not be written in the genealogy, nor could they be qualified to have a dedicated graveyard. They might be being transported to the crematory now.

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