The Billionaire's Cruelty, My Secret Daughter

Eight months later. Winter in Philadelphia was a physical assault. The wind coming off the river was like knives. Seraphina waddled up the stairs. She was huge. Her belly strained against the fabric of her oversized coat. Her ankles were swollen to the size of grapefruits. She unlocked the door to her apartment. It was freezing. The heater had died two days ago, and the landlord wasn't answering his phone. She sat on the bed and counted her money. She had saved every penny from the diner. She had enough for the hospital co-pay, but barely. She went to sleep wearing three layers of clothes. In the middle of the night, she woke up coughing. The air was thick. Grey. Acrid. Smoke. She sat up, panic seizing her chest. The fire alarm on the ceiling was silent—broken, just like everything else in this hellhole. Screams erupted from the hallway. "Fire! Get out!" Seraphina rolled out of bed. She grabbed her "Go Bag"—a backpack with diapers, a onesie, and her stash of cash. She ran to the door. She touched the handle. It hissed. Searing hot. Trapped. "Help!" she screamed, banging on the wood. But the roar of the fire on the other side drowned her out. Water. She felt a pop, and then a gush of warm liquid down her legs. Her water broke. "No," she moaned. "Not now. Please, not now." A contraction hit her like a sledgehammer. She doubled over, clutching the dresser. The window. She hobbled to the window. It was rusted shut. She grabbed the heavy lamp from the bedside table and swung it. Crash. Glass shattered. Cold air rushed in, feeding the flames that were now licking under the door. She climbed out onto the fire escape. The metal grate was covered in ice. She slipped, her knee slamming into the iron. "Jump!" a firefighter yelled from the alley below. "Jump onto the bag!" She looked down. Three stories. Another contraction seized her. She gripped the railing, screaming into the smoke. "I can't! The baby is coming!" A ladder extended. A firefighter in heavy gear climbed up, his face masked. He reached her just as her legs gave out. He threw her over his shoulder like a sack of flour. The descent was a blur of smoke, lights, and pain. The heat seared her back, burning through her coat, branding her skin. She was in the ambulance before she knew what was happening. "She's crowning!" a paramedic yelled. Seraphina gripped the rails of the stretcher. The pain was blinding. It was tearing her apart. "Push!" She screamed, a primal sound that had nothing to do with Seraphina Sterling, the socialite. This was Seraphina, the animal mother. And then, silence. Followed by a thin, wavering cry. "It's a girl," the paramedic said. "She's small. She's blue." Seraphina reached out, her hands covered in soot. "Give her to me." They placed the tiny bundle on her chest. The baby was cold. "Respiratory distress," the paramedic radioed ahead. "Smoke inhalation. Possible premature lungs." Seraphina kissed the baby's forehead. It tasted of ash. "June," she whispered. "Your name is June." Then the darkness took her. She woke up in the charity ward. A nurse was adjusting her IV. "Where is she?" Seraphina croaked. "NICU," the nurse said kindly. "She's fighting. But the bill... do you have insurance?" Seraphina closed her eyes. Two weeks later, she was discharged. June had to stay. The bill arrived. It was a piece of paper that weighed a thousand tons. Neonatal Intensive Care Unit: $142,000. Seraphina stood in the pharmacy aisle an hour later. She needed specialized formula for premature infants. The hospital had given her samples, but they were gone. June needed the nutrients to grow, to heal her smoke-damaged lungs. She swiped her debit card. Declined. She had twelve dollars. The can of formula was thirty-two. She looked at the security camera. She looked at the can. She slipped the formula into her oversized coat pocket. She walked toward the door. Her heart was beating faster than it had during the fire. "Hey!" A hand grabbed her shoulder. A security guard. Large. Angry. "Empty your pockets." Seraphina fell to her knees. Right there on the dirty linoleum. "Please," she begged, pulling out the formula. Tears cut tracks through the soot that still stained her hairline. "My baby is sick. She's a preemie. I just need to feed her. I'll pay you back. Please." The guard looked at her. He saw the burns on her hands. He saw the desperation in her eyes that went beyond drugs or greed. He saw a mother who would kill or die for the tin can in her hand. He looked around. The store was empty. He took the formula from her hand. He scanned it at the register, pulled a forty from his own wallet, and paid for it. He handed her the bag. "Get out," he said roughly. "And don't come back." Seraphina took the bag. She didn't have the dignity to refuse. She just whispered, "Thank you," and walked out into the snow.