I came back for some confidential documents and found my 8-month pregnant wife kneeling, crying while washing my mother's feet. "This house belongs to my children, not to you," she said. I held my breath, gathered two suitcases, and showed her bank statements revealing who had been stealing from us for months.

I slid across the bloody floor, grabbing my wife's pale face and begging her to stay conscious.

Emma gasped for air, her fingernails digging painfully into my forearms as another brutal contraction ripped through her body.

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed emergency services, screaming at the dispatcher to send an ambulance immediately.

My mother stood frozen in the hallway, clutching her purse and watching the horrific scene with an unsettlingly calm expression.

I glared at her with absolute hatred, swearing that if anything happened to my wife or my child, I would make sure she died in a federal prison.

Margaret simply offered a cold, dismissive smirk before turning on her heel and walking out the front door.

The distant wail of sirens finally pierced the quiet suburban neighborhood, growing louder with each agonizing second.

Paramedics burst through the front door with a stretcher, quickly assessing the massive amount of blood soaking the carpet.

They lifted Emma onto the gurney, securing an oxygen mask over her face as her eyes rolled back into her head.

I rode in the back of the screaming ambulance, holding Emma's cold hand and praying to a God I hadn't spoken to in years.

When we arrived at the emergency room, a team of nurses whisked her away behind a set of heavy, restricted double doors.

I paced the sterile waiting room for two hours, my dress shirt covered in my wife's blood, feeling entirely helpless.

Finally, a grim-faced doctor in blue surgical scrubs pushed through the doors and walked directly toward me.

He told me that they had managed to temporarily stop the premature labor, but the situation was still incredibly critical.

He explained that Emma's blood tests revealed massive levels of an artificial toxin designed specifically to trigger uterine contractions.

I told the doctor about the empty glass vial I had found hidden in my mother's leather suitcase.

The doctor's expression darkened as he asked me to identify the specific name of the chemical compound.

When I told him the name, he took a step back and looked at me with deep, unmistakable suspicion.

He explained that this specific synthetic compound was not something an ordinary person could buy on the black market.

“Which daughter is yours?” should have been a harmless question

The first wineglass shattered at 8:07 p.m

The moment the mafia boss’s wife called me “an illiterate servant,”

The doctor revealed that the toxin was a highly experimental drug currently being developed by my own pharmaceutical company.

He crossed his arms and coldly informed me that the police were already on their way to question me about the poisoning of my wife.

Chapter 2 - The Medical Emergency