The Tenth Pregnancy

The smell of disinfectant clung like a sticky film, stubbornly adhering to the tip of my nose. I clenched the knuckles holding my mobile phone so hard they turned white, the contours of the bones clearly protruding beneath my skin. A strange number suddenly flashed on the screen, the digits burning like a red-hot iron, scorching my eyes with pain. "The tenth has been delivered; Mr. Lynn is very satisfied." The message was brief, yet it pierced my heart like an ice pick. My heart suddenly clenched, as if gripped fiercely by a hand clad in ice, abruptly ceasing its beat. Ten children. The number exploded in my mind, and I instinctively reached toward my lower abdomen. A dull ache from the cesarean still lingered there, like countless fine needles slowly wandering beneath the skin. In the past five years, I have endured ten pregnancies. After each delivery, Mario Collins would rush over with red-rimmed eyes, his voice choked as he said the child could not be saved. "It is a congenital heart disease." The first time he said those words, his voice trembled like a withered leaf in the wind. I lay on the hospital bed, the anesthesia not yet worn off, helpless as tears soaked the pillowcase. "This time, it is pulmonary hypoplasia." On the night I lost the child for the third time, he held me in his arms throughout the night. His embrace was warm, yet I always felt a coldness, the kind that seeps from deep within the bones. "The doctor said... it is a rare genetic defect." The seventh time I lay on the operating table, he buried his face in the hollow of my neck. My breath trembled, like a child forsaken by the world. His voice was always so vivid, his eyes frighteningly red, even shedding tears. Transparent tears fell onto the back of my hand, scalding hot. I believed him. I took his embrace as the only refuge in the storm. In the relentless agony of losing child after child, I clung desperately to this lifeline, terrified of sinking into the abyss. The bathroom door creaked open. Mario Collins emerged, wiping his dripping hair, droplets tracing down his jawline. "What are you looking at?" He leaned over, carrying the warm, damp scent of a bath, reaching out to take my mobile phone. I abruptly turned off the screen, my fingertips trembling violently, the phone nearly slipping from my palm. "Nothing, just spam messages." My voice was dry, like sandpaper scraping. He glanced at me suspiciously, his brows slightly furrowed, but he did not press further. He turned and walked toward the landline in the corner of the living room, picking up the receiver. I curled up on the sofa, my body taut like a drawn bow. I heard him deliberately lower his voice and say, "Mr. Clark, rest assured, this batch of 'goods' is absolutely healthy." "I guarantee it with succubus bloodline..." "Yes, all born of her, with very high purity..." Succubus bloodline. The words stabbed into my eardrums like steel needles dipped in deadly poison. So he knew everything. Knew I was no ordinary human. Knew my bloodline could bear offspring with special abilities. Those children he called 'stillborns' had in fact become his bargaining chips to curry favor with the powerful. I watched the smug curve that lifted the corner of his mouth as he hung up the phone. A tumultuous storm churned in my stomach, acid rising relentlessly into my throat. "Mario," I croaked, each word squeezed out as if from a rusted iron pipe, "our children... are they really all gone?" He froze for a moment, the receiver still not firmly in his hand. Then he revealed his usual gentle expression, yet his eyes seemed veiled in mist: "Nola, are you overthinking again? Didn't the doctor already tell you?" "But just now..." "Don't overthink it." He cut me off, strode to the sofa, sat down, and reached out to stroke my hair. His fingertips carried the fresh scent of shampoo, yet I only felt a tingling numbness on my scalp. "You just had surgery; you need to rest." "When you get better, we'll have another one, alright?" His palm was warm, but I felt as if a cold, poisonous snake was crawling across my skin. Late at night, I closed my eyes, pretending to sleep, but my eyelashes trembled uncontrollably. I listened as he quietly walked to the balcony and pushed open the glass door. The night wind swept in, carrying his hushed voice: "The next buyer has already been found; someone named Carter is willing to pay double..." "Yes, she remains in the dark, believing I care for her..." I bit down hard on the pillow, the fabric's texture pressing painfully against my gums, stifling my sobs. Tears soaked the pillowcase, cold against my cheek like an unmelting block of ice. So all the tender love and affection of these five years was a meticulously woven lie. I am not his wife. She was nothing more than a breeding tool he kept captive.