Mr. President, I Have Your Heir

"Who is the father of that bastard you're carrying?!"

The man's harsh words echoed through the upscale villa in Primrose City, cutting through the sound of the relentless rain pounding against the windows. His voice was sharp, a blade that sliced through the silence of the grand hall.

A woman lay on the cold marble floor, her breath shallow, a pool of blood spreading beneath her. Her fingers clutched her flat stomach, desperate to protect the fragile life within, even as pain threatened to drag her into unconsciousness.

Outside, the storm raged on, but inside, Harold Smith's fury was the true tempest. "Shameless slut! Did you think you could disgrace me and my family and get away with it?" His voice dripped with venom as he kicked her again, sending a fresh wave of agony through her body. "Over my dead body will that happen!"

Andrea's vision blurred, but her grip on her stomach tightened. She could feel the life within her, fragile and vulnerable, and silently prayed for a miracle. But the pool of blood continued to grow, staining the pristine floor.

The Smith family stood by, some of their faces pale and frozen in horror, but none dared to move. Fear paralyzed them, turning them into silent spectators of the brutality unfolding before them.

Harold spat on Andrea's face, his rage unrelenting. "You will get rid of that bastard, or don't blame me for being ruthless!" His voice was a thunderclap, reverberating through the hall as lightning flashed outside.

"NO!" The cry tore from Andrea's lips, weak but filled with resolve. She would not let them kill her child—her innocent, unborn child, who had no understanding of the horror surrounding them.

Harold's eyes narrowed as he squatted down to meet her gaze. "No?" he whispered, his voice dangerously calm. Without warning, he grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her up, eliciting a small cry of pain.

"How dare you refuse?" His voice rose again, raw with anger. "Do you have a death wish? Do you want to die with this bastard?!"

Andrea's tears mingled with the rain as she shook her head, too weak to resist his grip. "Don't... don't kill my baby, please," she begged, her voice barely above a whisper. "I-I beg of you!"

Harold's fury spiked, his face twisting in rage. "Does this bastard even deserve to be called a child?!" He hauled Andrea up by her hair, dragging her across the floor as he turned to face the rest of the family.

"From today henceforth, I, Harold Smith, will no longer acknowledge Andrea as my daughter!" His voice was ice, cutting through the silence. "And I forbid anyone from helping her! Anyone who lifts a finger to help her will leave this family with her!"

With a final, savage tug, he dragged Andrea to the front door. She stumbled, barely able to keep up, her body screaming in protest. When they reached the courtyard, Harold released her with a force that sent her crashing to the ground.

She lay there, her body trembling, soaked to the bone as the rain continued its merciless assault. Harold looked down at her with disgust, no longer seeing his daughter but a disgrace to his name.

"As of today, Andrea, you are no longer part of this family. Step foot near this house again, and you'll have me to contend with!"

Without another word, Harold turned and walked back inside, slamming the door behind him. The sound echoed in the night, a final punctuation to her sentence.

Andrea was left alone in the storm, the rain mocking her with its cold wind and relentless downpour. Her father's words reverberated in her mind as she struggled to stay conscious, her grip on life slipping.

Was this how she would die? Pregnant, homeless, abandoned in the cold?

A bitter laugh escaped her lips, choked by the pain. If only she could stand, if only she could fight for her child. But her body betrayed her, leaving her helpless on the ground.

Tears streamed down her face, mingling with the rain as she placed a trembling hand on her stomach. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I tried..."

As darkness closed in, Andrea's last sensation was the distant screech of tires on wet pavement, a sound that faded as she succumbed to the nothingness.

***

"We have an emergency! Female, mid-twenties, possible hypothermia, and extensive blood loss!" a nurse yelled as she and a few others pushed the stretcher into the hospital.

The emergency room buzzed with urgency as the medical team sprang into action. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a harsh, clinical glow on the white walls and polished floors. The scent of antiseptic filled the air, mixing with the metallic tang of blood.

The stretcher was wheeled swiftly through the bustling hallway, past curtained bays and occupied gurneys. Doctors and nurses converged on the patient with their faces focused.

Andrea's pale, lifeless form was barely visible under the soaked clothing clinging to her body. Her skin was icy to the touch, her breaths shallow, and her pulse thready—a sign that her body was in shock.

"Get her on the monitors—ECG, SpO2, blood pressure! We need warming blankets and warmed IV fluids, stat!" a doctor ordered, his voice sharp. He glanced at the blood-stained sheets and added, "Start two large-bore IVs with normal saline. We need to get her volume up!"

With precision, the nurses began attaching electrodes to her chest and setting up the IV lines. The heart monitor beeped steadily, though weakly, as her vital signs were displayed on the monitor.

"BP's 70/40 and dropping. She's tachycardic—pulse 130. We need to move fast," another doctor muttered as he assessed the expanding red stain beneath her.

"Call the OR and prepare for an emergency laparotomy—she could be bleeding internally. Type and crossmatch for four units of O-negative blood, just in case."

A nurse quickly turned to run the orders, her footsteps echoing in the hallway. Meanwhile, another nurse began cutting away Andrea's wet clothing to fully assess her injuries.

Andrea's eyelids fluttered, her consciousness was hanging by a thread. Her thoughts were broken, flashes of light and sound mixing with the overwhelming sensation of cold and pain. She could barely make out the voices around her, but she knew she wasn't dead—not yet. There was still a chance for her baby, if only she could hold on.

An oxygen mask was placed over her face. A nurse leaned in close, her voice soothing and warm. "Stay with us, sweetheart. We're going to take care of you."

Andrea heard the words, but the darkness was closing in, a cold, inescapable void pulling her under.

"Save... save my baby..." she whispered, her voice barely audible beneath the mask, before she slipped into unconsciousness.

The nurse who had placed the oxygen mask over her turned to the attending physician, her face stricken. "Stop! She's pregnant!" she exclaimed, stopping the other nurse just as she was about to administer a medication that could harm the fetus.

"Prep the ultrasound machine—now!" the doctor snapped, his voice rising above the hum of machinery. He leaned over Andrea, his hands deftly working to assess her condition. "We need to check for fetal distress and see if there's a placental abruption."

A portable ultrasound machine was quickly brought to the bedside, the screen flickering on as the gel was applied to Andrea's abdomen. The doctor moved the transducer over her stomach, his eyes fixed on the screen. A faint, rapid heartbeat appeared, steady but weak.

"The baby's alive, but we need to move now," he said, his tone urgent but controlled. "Prep for the OR, and alert the OB team. We may need to perform an emergency termination if the situation worsens."

At that moment, the nurse who had been sent returned with a man already dressed in surgical scrubs.

"What's the situation?" Dr. Rhodes asked, taking charge as he quickly examined Andrea. His brow furrowed as he listened to the reports, calculating the next and best course of action.

After a thorough examination, he looked up and gave the final order. "Prep the OR and call in the trauma surgeon. We're going to need all hands on deck."