My Ex-Husband Burst Into the Operating Room

Sign the papers. The villa is yours, and I'll give you fifty million on top of it.

Hubert Delgado's voice was cold as deep winter ice as he pushed the divorce agreement across to Layla Fox, not lifting his eyes.

Layla looked at that thin sheet of paper, her fingertips gone pale. She asked softly, Is it because Letitia Pruitt came back?

His hand paused over his own signature. At last he looked up at her, and there was no hiding the impatience in his eyes. "Since you already know, spare yourself the scene. Her health is poor, she can't take any stress, and I don't want her knowing we're still tangled up in this."

"Tangled up?" Layla let out a bitter laugh. In three years of this marriage, she had lived like an invisible housekeeper. When had she ever tangled him up in anything?

"Fine." She picked up the pen and signed her name cleanly. "Hubert, I hope you get everything you want."

Just then his phone rang. He answered, and his tone turned tender in an instant, as if he were a different man. "Letitia, don't be scared, I'm coming right now. There's a good girl, do as I say..."

Watching that back hurry off, that back that had never once softened for her, something in Layla went quiet and dead.

The wind outside the county records office was fierce, biting at her eyes until they ached.

The red divorce certificate in her hand, its gilt lettering, was hard to look at.

Just half an hour ago, she and Hubert Delgado, the man who held the reins of the wealthy Delgado family, had ended three years of marriage for good.

Hubert hadn't even waited to walk out the door with her. He took his copy and got straight into the Maybach parked at the curb, headed in the direction of Downtown General Hospital. She'd heard Letitia was getting a checkup there today.

Layla pulled her trench coat tighter and flagged down a cab.

"Parkview Residences, please."

"Sure thing. You don't sound local, from your accent. Just finished up some business?" The driver was a warm-hearted sort, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.

"Yeah. Just finished." Layla managed a thin smile and turned her head to the streets rushing past the window.

These three years, she had lived like a joke.

Layla came from an ordinary family, a high school English teacher. Her father had died young, and her mother lived on a pension. Three years ago, old Alvin Delgado fell gravely ill, and a fortune-teller said the family needed a marriage arranged as a blessing to ward off ill fortune, that they had to find a girl with a strong fate and a steady temperament.

Back then Layla was still reeling from her father's death, and the family was buried in debt. The Delgados came knocking. They paid off her debts and arranged the best care home for her mother. Their only condition was that she marry Hubert Delgado.

Hubert was the classic scion of a wealthy house, cold, sparing with words, with nothing in his eyes but work.

On their wedding night, he moved into a separate room from her.

"I married you for my grandfather's sake," Hubert said from the bedroom doorway, unfastening his cufflinks, his expression indifferent. "As long as you know your place, you'll have every bit of the standing and comfort a Mrs. Delgado is owed. But anything beyond that, don't even think about it."

Layla was young then, and she always believed that no heart was truly made of stone.

She thought that if she did well enough, she could thaw the ice in him eventually.

So she quit the teaching job she loved and threw herself into being a full-time wife.

Hubert's stomach was bad, so she learned to make healing broth, simmering him a different porridge every day, even though he often came home late from business dinners and sometimes didn't touch it at all.

His clothes all had to be washed by hand, so all through the dead of winter she kept her hands in cold water, red and stinging, and never said a word.

The Delgado relatives were difficult, her mother-in-law sharp and prickly, and she was always the one with her eyes lowered, pouring the tea and swallowing every slight in silence.

Even a stone should warm up after three years of being held close, shouldn't it?

But Hubert wasn't a stone. He was iron, and he only carried warmth to one particular person.

That person was Letitia.

Layla moved into a rented two-bedroom apartment.

It wasn't large, but it was warm. She'd thrown out everything from the mansion, taking only a few old clothes and a photograph of her mother.

Even though Hubert had given her fifty million, she didn't intend to touch it. The money scalded her hands. It was the price paid to buy out three years of her youth and her dignity. She planned to find a time to return it to Alvin Delgado's account, to settle the debt of kindness he'd shown her back then.

Now she only wanted to start over, find a job, and go back to living an ordinary person's life.

While she was tidying up, Layla came across a photograph.

It was from their first wedding anniversary, one of the rare times Hubert had come home early. Layla had cooked a whole table of dishes and lit candles.

That night, Hubert had a little to drink, and there was something hazy in the way he looked at her.

"Layla, are you tired?" he asked.

"Not tired." Layla smiled and ladled soup for him.

That night had been one of the few tender moments in their marriage. Layla had thought it was a turning point.

But now, thinking back, she remembered that Letitia had posted something online from abroad that day. The image was a lonely silhouette from behind, and the caption read: Missing the warmth and life back home.

So it turned out the loneliness in his eyes that day hadn't been for this home at all. It had been for the person on the other side of the ocean.

The real turning point had come a month ago.

That day was Layla's birthday. For once in a lifetime, Hubert had said he wanted to eat dinner at home.

Layla was overjoyed. She'd been busy since morning, buying groceries, prepping ingredients, simmering the fish soup he loved most.

At seven that evening, Hubert came home.

He was carrying a cake box. Layla had just reached out to take it when his phone rang.

The moment he answered, his face changed completely.

"What? The airport? Stay there, don't move!"

He hung up, set the cake down on the shoe cabinet by the entryway, and turned to leave.

"Hubert, dinner's ready" Layla caught the sleeve of his jacket. On the back of her hand, the hot oil had already raised a blister.

Hubert turned, his eyes so sharp they frightened her. "Letitia's back. She had an asthma attack at the airport and doesn't have her medicine with her. A life is on the line. You still care about one meal?"

"But today is"

"Enough!" Hubert flung off her hand, hard enough that Layla stumbled and hit the wall. "Layla, don't be so unreasonable. Eat by yourself."

The front door slammed shut.

Layla slid down to the floor and looked at the cake box he'd tossed aside so carelessly.

It was the flavor she disliked most.

Letitia loved that fancy cheesecake. Everyone in the Delgado family knew that.

So the cake hadn't been bought for her at all. He'd just grabbed it on the way, or bought it for Letitia and brought it home only because she hadn't arrived yet.

In that moment, Layla looked at the table full of dishes gone cold and finally understood something.

A melon forced from the vine is never sweet, and a heart you can't warm will freeze a person to death.

In the month after Letitia came home, Hubert seemed like a different man.

He posted Letitia's paintings online with the caption "The genius returns."

He was caught by paparazzi taking Letitia to an amusement park, wearing a bright smile Layla had never seen on his face. He even drove across half the city late at night just to buy Letitia the dumpling soup she was craving.

That gentleness, that thoughtfulness, that patience.

So it turned out he had all of it.

He just didn't give any of it to her.

Life after the divorce was quieter than Layla had imagined, but harder too.

She had been out of the workforce too long. She interviewed at several tutoring centers, and every one of them turned her down politely because of the gap in her rsum.

"Miss Fox, your credentials are solid, but the tutoring industry is high-pressure these days. You haven't worked in three years, and we're worried you won't be able to keep up with the pace."

The interviewer closed her rsum and saw her out with a courteous smile.

Layla stepped out of the office building, and the noon sun left her dizzy.

Lately she was always tired, drained of energy, and her appetite had gone terrible. The faintest smell of cooking oil made her want to be sick, and brushing her teeth in the morning left her retching over and over.

"It's probably just stress, plus a cold from the change of seasons," she told herself, and stopped at a pharmacy for some stomach medicine.

But after two days, the symptoms hadn't eased. If anything, they were worse.

That day she was boiling pasta at home. She lifted the lid, and a wave of the broth smell hit her in the face.

"Ugh"

She bolted for the bathroom and threw up until the world spun, until she was almost bringing up bile.

She looked at her pale, worn reflection in the mirror, and a thought flashed through her mind that hit her like a bolt of lightning.

That month... it hadn't come.

Two weeks before the divorce, Hubert had come home drunk. It was not long after Letitia had returned to the country, and Hubert had seemed in a foul mood. That night he'd been rough, a little out of control...

With shaking hands, Layla dug out the calendar.

Forty days late.

She didn't dare put it off. She pulled on a mask and hat and took a cab to the public hospital farthest from home. She avoided the private ones, afraid of running into someone the Delgados knew.

A long line stretched outside the obstetrics department, full of women with big round bellies and the husbands who'd come along. Only Layla sat alone in a corner.

"Number 28, Layla Fox."

She walked into the ultrasound room.

The doctor slid the probe back and forth across her belly, her brow drawing tighter and tighter.

Layla's heart climbed into her throat. "Doctor, is it... is something growing in there?"

The doctor stopped, turned to look at her, something complicated in her eyes. "Something's growing, all right. But it's good news."

"Did you conceive naturally?" the doctor asked.

"Yes." Layla nodded.

"Impressive." The doctor turned the screen toward her and pointed at three little dark dots on it. "See these? Three gestational sacs. You're carrying triplets."

"What?!" Layla nearly jumped off the table. "Three... three of them?"

"That's right, triplets. And all three have heartbeats already. They're developing well." The doctor talked as she typed up the report. "But you're far too thin. Carrying triplets is high-risk, and later on you're prone to premature labor and high blood pressure. Did anyone come with you? This is something to discuss with your husband. Raising three children is an enormous challenge, financially and physically."

Husband?

Layla's hand drifted, without thinking, to her flat stomach.

What husband did she have.

All she had was an ex-husband who'd just divorced her and was getting ready to fly off into the sunset with his first love.

She left the exam room with the ultrasound printout in her hand, sank onto a bench in the hospital corridor, and her mind went blank.

Three children.

If this had happened before the divorce, the Delgados would have been over the moon. Her mother-in-law had always wanted a grandson, and even Hubert, cold as he was, had said he wanted a child.

But now, everything had changed.

If the Delgados found out, these three children would be taken from her at once. A family like theirs would never allow its bloodline to be raised elsewhere.

But once the children entered the Delgado house, they'd have a stepmother named Letitia.

A woman as delicate and petty as Letitia, with a heart smaller than a pin's point, would she treat Layla's children well?

More than that, Hubert didn't love her at all. If these three were born, they'd grow up in a single-parent home, or in a loveless mansion, turned into tools in a fight over an inheritance.

Layla touched the bank card in her pocket.

If she didn't tell the Delgados, how could she ever raise three children on her own?

"Well, if it isn't Layla Fox."

The shrill voice cut through Layla's thoughts.

She looked up. A wealthy-looking woman in a designer dress and jade necklace stood a short distance away, an Herms bag over her arm, staring at Layla with open contempt.

It was her former mother-in-law, Hubert's mother, Rosemary Whitney.

Of all the people to run into.

Layla instinctively crumpled the ultrasound report into a ball and shoved it into her pocket, then stood. "Aunt Rosemary."

They were divorced now. There was no reason to call her "Mom" anymore.

Rosemary raised an eyebrow, looked her up and down, and let her gaze settle on Layla's pale face.

"What's this? Sick? Well, no surprise there. Cut loose from a family like the Delgados, life must be hard. Look at those cheap clothes. How pathetic."

Layla had no interest in this. "If you're here to see a doctor, Aunt Rosemary, I won't keep you."

"Not so fast." Rosemary gave a cold snort. "I'm here today with Letitia, for her checkup. Letitia's health is delicate, and Hubert dotes on her so much he insisted she have a full workup.

"She's only two weeks along, and Hubert's beside himself with joy. He just stepped out to buy her supplements."

The words landed like a thunderclap.

Two weeks pregnant?

Letitia was pregnant?

Which meant that before their divorce was even final, Hubert and Letitia had already

It felt like a knife driven into her heart, then twisted, salt ground into the wound.

So it turned out he hadn't touched her out of coldness. He'd been saving all his warmth for someone else.

So it turned out he'd been so generous in the divorce agreement to make room for the child in Letitia's belly.

"Then that's... congratulations." Layla clenched her teeth, mustering everything she had just to stay on her feet.

"Of course it is." Rosemary stroked the huge diamond on her finger, smug. "Letitia comes from a good family, an artist trained overseas. She and my Hubert were made for each other.

"Not like some people, from some little nobody household. What can you do besides cook and do laundry? Taking up space and producing nothing. Three years, and you couldn't even lay an egg."

Every word was a poisoned barb sinking into Layla's chest.

Inside her pocket, her hand clenched around the ultrasound report. Triplets.

Who said she couldn't?

She was carrying three.

But in that moment, something cleared in Layla's mind.

Cleared completely.

If Rosemary found out she was pregnant, the woman would do everything in her power to seize the children and kick Layla to the curb.

Her children would call Letitia "Mommy," would scrape by under this snobbish woman's thumb, while their own father, Hubert, revolved only around Letitia and the child they'd have together.

Her children, from the moment they were born, would be surplus. Little more than bastards.

She could never let that happen.

"You're right, Aunt Rosemary." Layla lifted her head, her eyes colder and harder than they had ever been. "Miss Pruitt and Mr. Delgado are a perfect match. I have things to do. I'll be going."

With that, she walked away quickly, not looking back.

Behind her came Rosemary's disdainful sneer. "Stray dog."

Once she was out the hospital doors, Layla crouched by a flower bed at the roadside, and the tears finally came, unstoppable.

She pressed a hand to her belly, her whole body shaking with sobs.

"Babies, I'm sorry... it's not that Mommy's cruel. It's that this world is too crowded. There's no place for you..."

That night, Layla dialed the number the doctor had given her.

"Doctor, I've decided. The abortion... can you schedule it as soon as possible?"

"You're sure? These are triplets. That's very rare." There was regret in the doctor's voice.

"I'm sure." Layla stared out at the pitch-black night sky, her voice frighteningly steady. "I can't raise them on my own. I can't give them a good life. If it's doomed to be a tragedy, better they never come at all."

"All right. Come in the morning, day after tomorrow. Remember not to eat beforehand. Will a family member sign the consent?"

"There's no family. I'll sign it myself."

The surgery was set for Friday morning.

That day the sky hung low and gray, a fine drizzle falling.

Layla had changed into the blue-and-white striped hospital gown and sat in the waiting area outside the operating room.

It was quiet around her, broken now and then by a nurse's hurried footsteps and the squeak of a cart's wheels. The smell of disinfectant hung in the air. It made her feel like she was suffocating, and at the same time it brought a strange, freeing relief.

"Layla, it's your turn."

A nurse came out holding a chart and called her name.

Layla stood. Her legs felt weak.

She drew a deep breath and followed the nurse through that cold, heavy door.

The operating room was cold.

The surgical light was blinding, leaving nowhere to hide.

"Lie down, legs apart, up on the stirrups." The nurse directed her, expressionless.

Layla obeyed mechanically.

The cold metal instruments touched her skin and sent a shiver through her.

The anesthesiologist came over with a mask. "Relax, breathe in. Just a little sleep and it'll be over soon."

Layla closed her eyes.

A single clear tear slid from the corner of her eye.

Goodbye, babies. In your next life, be born into a good family, and find a father who loves your mother.

And at that very moment, as the anesthesiologist was about to push the drug and the doctor picked up the surgical forceps

"Bang! "

The heavy airtight door of the operating room was slammed open by a tremendous force.

The crash startled the surgeon so badly her hand jerked, and the forceps nearly hit the floor.

Every nurse and doctor turned in alarm toward the door.

A tall man had come charging in.

He was soaked through, his expensive suit crumpled from the rain, his hair plastered messily to his forehead.

The most chilling thing was his eyes.

Red, shot through with blood, as though he hadn't slept for days, or had just been crying.

It was Hubert.

The Delgado CEO who never changed expression even if a mountain collapsed in front of him looked, in this moment, like a beast that had lost all control.

He was gasping in great ragged breaths, his chest heaving, his eyes sweeping wildly across the operating room until they locked, hard, on Layla on the table.

Layla opened her eyes, stunned, staring at this man who was supposed to be at Letitia's side, caring for her pregnancy.

Hubert crossed the room in two strides and shoved aside the anesthesiologist reaching for the drug, hard enough to nearly knock him over.

"Hubert, are you insane? This is an operating room!" Layla came to herself and struggled to sit up. "Get out!"

Hubert paid no attention to her struggling.

Both hands gripped the edge of the operating table, his knuckles white with the force of it, veins standing out.

He stared at Layla's face, then at her flat belly, and in a hoarse, broken voice, he said the one thing that dropped every jaw in the room.