1160 He Slammed Me to the Floor at Eight Months Pregnant to Protect His Image—Then My Father, a Federal Judge, Answered the Phone

The hospital lobby was three floors down, but the name echoed through the doorway like a physical blow.

Amanda Sterling.

I gripped the metal guardrail of the bed, my knuckles turning white. "What did you just say?" I asked, staring at the hospital administrator.

The administrator blinked, shifting her clipboard uncomfortably. "She's downstairs. She presented a state-issued ID bearing the surname Sterling and a certified marriage license dated four years ago, claiming she is Derek's legal wife. She's demanding access to your visitor registry and asking if there's been an asset assignment."

Catherine Vance didn't flinch. Instead, a cold, predatory light sharpened her eyes. She snapped her tablet shut with a sharp click.

"Judge," Catherine said, looking over at my father. "It seems our corporate fraudster was running a two-tier domestic portfolio as well."

Marcus didn't speak immediately. His face was a mask of cold granite, carved from decades of seeing the absolute worst of human nature in federal courtrooms. He slowly turned his gaze from the door back to me, his voice remarkably gentle despite the fury in his eyes.

"Are you holding up, Elena?" he asked.

"I'm not breaking," I said, my voice shaking with a sudden, icy surge of adrenaline. The grief, the exhaustion, the fear of the fall—all of it crystallized into a hard, unyielding resolve. "Bring her up. I want to see what else my husband lied about."

Marcus nodded once and looked at the administrator. "Escort her up to this room, please. And make sure two hospital security guards accompany her. We want no theatrical surprises."

Within ten minutes, the heavy door pushed open again.

A woman walked in, and for a terrifying second, I felt as though I were looking into a polished mirror of my own past. She was younger than me—maybe twenty-four or twenty-five—with dark, expressive eyes, dressed in an expensive designer trench coat that looked suspiciously similar to the one Vivian had worn yesterday. But her hands were trembling, and her face was pale with a mix of genuine terror and righteous fury.

She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw my father, then saw me propped up in the hospital bed with an IV pole beside me.

"You're... you're Elena," the woman whispered, her voice cracking.

"And you must be Amanda," I replied, keeping my voice level. "The legal wife, according to the administrator downstairs. Care to explain why my husband was married to both of us?"

Amanda let out a dry, broken laugh and clutched a thick leather folder to her chest like a shield. "Married? He told me three months ago that he was finally getting a quiet divorce from his estranged, distant wife so we could make our marriage official before the baby came. He kept telling me it was just a matter of paperwork."

The room went dead silent.