One Too Many Red Flags

Phoebe fell seriously ill. A relentless fever burned through her, and no matter what she ate, it came back up.

"A bunch of useless doctors," Nathan snapped. "I paid you all this money, and you can't even bring down a simple fever?" If the butler hadn't been holding him back, he might have struck someone.

"Madam is pregnant," the doctor explained, his face tight with helplessness. "Most medications aren't safe, and your parents specifically instructed us to avoid using medicine. Right now, the best approach is through dietary therapy to strengthen her body, but she can't keep anything down."

Nathan carried a bowl of porridge to her bedside. He took her hand, his usual coldness replaced by something raw and pleading. "Phoebe, please. For me, for our child, eat something. Just a little, okay?"

Phoebe turned her face away without a word.

In just a few days, she had become a shadow of herself. Her skin was pale, her cheeks sunken, and her once graceful frame had thinned alarmingly. Only her swollen belly remained—a jarring contrast to the rest of her frail body.

"Phoebe, what's wrong?" Nathan's voice trembled as his eyes reddened. "What happened? Can you tell me?"

She wanted to know, too. What had gone so wrong? How had their perfect, happy marriage turned into this?

Why had the man who once loved her so deeply become a liar the moment she got pregnant?

Who could give her an answer?

"Phoebe, I'm begging you," he said, his composure cracking as he pulled her into his arms. "If you'll just eat, I'll do anything you want. I can't lose you or our child. If anything happens to either of you, I'll lose my mind."

Phoebe forced herself upright. He was right—she couldn't die now. If she did, until her last breath, she would still be his wife.

She no longer wanted that. She wanted to leave him.

Suppressing the nausea rising in her throat, she picked up the bowl and took a sip of the porridge.

Seeing her finally eat, Nathan's face lit up with relief. "Phoebe, you're eating! What else do you want? I'll have the kitchen make it for you—no, I'll cook it myself!"

But before his words had fully settled, Phoebe bent forward and vomited everything back up.

Her body was too weak. Even when she forced herself to eat, nothing stayed down. Within a minute, it all came back out.

Left with no choice, Nathan took her to the hospital for observation.

But even after being admitted, her condition remained dire. The attending physician, brows furrowed with worry, gave him a grim assessment. "Mr. Marshal, your wife is not in a condition to continue the pregnancy. If she does, both mother and child will be at serious risk."

"I recommend delivering early," the doctor continued. "Although it's still risky at this stage, the safest window is after six and a half to seven months. We can attempt a cesarean section then."

"Will that endanger Phoebe?" Nathan's voice was tight with panic.

"Our recommendation is based on her current health," the doctor said. "Once the baby is delivered, we can focus entirely on treating her without worrying about complications from the pregnancy."

"Then do it," Nathan said without hesitation. "Get that little brat out of her as soon as possible. How dare he make Phoebe suffer like this? I'll make him pay for it when he grows up—I swear I will."

A nearby nurse, moved by his words, leaned toward Phoebe and whispered, "Your husband loves you so much. Most men, when they come in with their wives for checkups, only care about the baby. And that's if they bother to come at all. Many women have to go through this alone."

"But look at your husband," she added softly. "He cares about you more than anything. He's willing to deliver the baby at six months just to spare you any more pain."

Phoebe smiled faintly but said nothing.

Pregnancy was supposed to be a sacred, joyous experience, the miracle of bringing new life into the world. But why, then, was it filled with so much suffering—for her and for so many others like her?