The echoes of "I'm pregnant with Michael Larson's child" still reverberated in Christina Williams' ears, a thunderclap in the oppressive silence of the lavish living room. Her gaze, wide with disbelief, fell upon the medical report Serena Garcia had thrown at her feet. Michael's signature, bold and familiar, confirmed the lie.

Fury, raw and untamed, flashed in Christina's eyes. "You shameless bitch! You’re just the same as your mom, aren’t you? I’m going to kill you!" Her hand, trembling with rage, connected sharply with Serena's cheek. Before she could strike again, Heather Sunderland, her mother-in-law, appeared, her voice cutting through the air like a whip.

"What are you trying to do, Christina?" Heather demanded, then turned, her eyes cold as ice. "You whore! Don't take it out on her! It's not her fault that you're infertile!" The words, designed to wound, struck Christina harder than any blow. The world tilted, her vision blurred. She stumbled backward, her hand instinctively reaching for the table's edge, a sharp pain jolting through her.

Just then, the front door swung open. Michael Larson stood silhouetted against the stormy night, his gaze sweeping over the chaotic scene. Heather's voice, shrill with accusation, filled the room: "This woman wants to kill my grandchildren, Michael! We have to send Serena to the hospital now!"

Michael's eyes darkened as he saw the growing pool of crimson on the floor. Without a glance at Christina, he swept the feigning Serena into his arms and carried her out into the roaring downpour. Despair, a cold, icy serpent, coiled around Christina's heart. Her hand, seeking purchase on the table, slipped. A warm, sticky sensation spread beneath her skirt. She looked down, her blood-stained hands a stark testament to the tragedy unfolding around her.