Too Late For Regret, Mr. Booth

I was eight months pregnant with triplets, waiting for my husband in his private office.

Instead, his "childhood friend" Jaida walked in and threw divorce papers at my pregnant belly.

"He doesn't need you anymore. I'm the one who gave him a kidney five years ago, and now he's giving me his family."

But I was the one who secretly gave him my kidney.

Before I could expose her lie, she pushed me hard against a glass table.

I went into premature labor. In the blood-soaked operating room, I heard Jaida give a cold order to the corrupt doctor.

"Secure the heirs, whatever the cost to the incubator."

They told me my two sons died, leaving only my frail daughter. I barely escaped the burning hospital with her, faking our deaths to survive.

Four years later, I took my daughter to a top cardiologist for her rare heart defect, only to run into my ex-husband and Jaida.

They had a four-year-old son with them. His name was Jacob—the exact name I had chosen for my "dead" baby.

What completely shattered my world was the doctor's secret revelation: their son and my daughter shared an impossible, one-in-ten-million genetic mutation.

My sons didn't die in that operating room. Jaida had stolen my baby and my life.

I immediately ordered a secret DNA test. This time, I wouldn't just run; I would make them pay for everything they took from me.