Twenty-four hours later, I finally found my daughter in a hospital bed, barely clinging to life.
Thomas was standing right beside her.
He had another child in his arms, the same age as Lily. His tone was casual.
"Douglas has a congenital bone marrow deficiency. Our daughter happened to be a perfect match, so I had them extract a little."
The air locked in my chest. My gaze dropped to the patient chart at the foot of the bed.
Name: Douglas Gilbert.
Father: Thomas Gilbert.
Mother: Tracey Harding.
So getting rid of Tracey had been a lie.
He'd kept her. And for the sake of their illegitimate son, he'd drained our daughter's bone marrow.
I forced the corners of my mouth up. The expression on my face twisted into something unrecognizable.
Good thing the marriage certificate from our remarriage was fake too.
We were even.
...
The hospital room was dead silent.
Then Lily let out a weak, agonized whimper.
I snapped back and rushed to her side.
Her tiny body was threaded with tubes, her face white as paper.
I reached out to touch her, but my fingers shook too badly to make contact.
Thomas was still over by the other bed, murmuring softly to that bastard child like nothing in the world was wrong.