Whispers from the Womb
I was in the middle of some much-needed retail therapy when his one that got away—fresh from a European conservatory—ambushed me. She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at my face, calling me a gold-digging whore trying to trap a man with a baby.
Just as I was about to show her what a real fight looks like, a tiny sigh echoed in the space between my ribs.
(Oh, for God's sake. Mom's about to do something stupid again. Last time, she went head-to-head with the ice queen, got tricked into a “miscarriage,” and ended up dying alone in some roach-infested studio apartment.)
(She has no idea. If she just played the delicate flower for two seconds, the scales in Dad’s heart would tip so far they’d break.)
Wait.
Play the delicate flower? Oh, I was born for this role.
1
“You poor thing. Turning yourself into a walking incubator, all for a bit of money.”
The voice was cool and laced with a theatrical pity that set my teeth on edge. “Asher only needs an heir, you know. He will never love you.”
I looked up into a face so perfect it seemed computer-generated. Seraphina Dubois, the world-renowned concert pianist. The ghost of a girl Asher Prescott supposedly never got over. She stood there in a couture champagne-colored gown, poised as a swan, but her eyes held the kind of disdain you reserve for something you’ve just scraped off your shoe.
I was literally balling my fists, ready to give her a masterclass in survival of the fittest, when a tiny, world-weary sigh reverberated through my womb.
(Here we go. Mom’s about to blow it.)
(Last time, she fought Seraphina tooth and nail. It got her a conveniently arranged car accident, a lost baby, and a lonely death in a one-room apartment in Queens.)
(Doesn't she get it? With a guy like Dad, you have to play the victim. He’s already halfway on your side!)
What?
My battle-ready stance froze mid-flex.
The victim?
Honey, I’m an expert.
(Stop arguing! Now! Clutch your stomach, cry, and fall into Dad! It’s not that hard, Mom, come on!)
The baby’s voice was a lightning strike, illuminating a path I hadn’t seen. I understood instantly.
The warrior mask I’d been wearing dissolved. In its place, a pale, fragile woman emerged. My body swayed, a picture of instability. I pressed one hand to my lower belly, stumbling backward as perfectly formed tears welled in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks.
“Miss Dubois, please… don’t say things like that…” My voice was a choked whisper, so fragile a stiff breeze might shatter it. “The baby… the baby can hear you… I… I feel so dizzy…”
Seraphina was momentarily stunned by my sudden transformation, her brow furrowing with a mixture of impatience and contempt. Just as she was about to unleash another volley, I spotted the tall, imposing figure approaching behind her. With practiced precision, my knees gave out.
“Ah—!”
I cried out, letting my body fall backward.
But I didn't hit the cold, polished floor. I landed securely in a strong embrace that smelled of expensive cologne and cold power.
Asher had followed us, likely expecting a scene. He didn't expect to catch a damsel in distress. The primal, male instinct to protect kicked in instantly.
He looked down, his gaze falling on my ghostly pale face and the hand clamped protectively over my stomach. His brow snapped into a severe line.
“What the hell happened here?” His voice was a low, dangerous rumble.
I didn't speak. I just clung weakly to his sleeve, the tears falling faster now, painting the perfect picture of someone who had been deeply wounded but was too scared to say a word.
The first crack appeared in Seraphina’s flawless composure. She clearly hadn’t anticipated my level of commitment to the role.
“Asher, I was just talking to her. She just…”
Before she could finish her lie, Asher cut her off, his voice like ice.
“That’s enough.”
He scooped me into his arms bridal-style and strode toward the exit without a second glance. As he passed Seraphina, he didn’t even bother to look at her.
Nestled in his arms, I cracked open one eye just enough to send a silent, triumphant smile over his shoulder to the woman who now stood frozen in place.
(Nice! The Damsel in Distress, Act One. Nailed it!) my unborn child cheered from within. (Dad’s a sucker for this knight-in-shining-armor routine. He can’t help himself.)
2
In the hospital, the sterile, antiseptic smell began to cut through the fog of my performance.
A doctor stood before us, holding a tablet, his expression grim. “The patient’s emotional distress is causing uterine contractions. She’s at risk of a miscarriage and needs complete bed rest.”
Asher stood beside me. At the word “miscarriage,” his gaze turned into a blade of ice, aimed directly at Seraphina, who stood, equally pale, in the doorway.
It was the first time I had ever seen him look at her with anything resembling blame. A barely perceptible tremor ran through her body.
I was settled into a private suite in the VIP wing, and Asher refused to leave my side. After a while, I “slowly” regained consciousness.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t throw a fit.
I just stared silently at the IV needle taped to the back of my hand. Then, with my other hand, I reached over, my movements weak but filled with a quiet finality, and tried to pull it out.
“What are you doing?!” Asher’s hand shot out, clamping down on my wrist. His voice was thick with suppressed fury.
I lifted my head, my eyes glistening with unshed tears, and looked at him. My expression was one of shattered, resigned calm.
“Mr. Prescott, I’m so sorry.”
“I never should have become an obstacle for you and Miss Dubois.”
“I’ll leave now. I won’t bother you again.”
I tried to push myself out of the bed, each movement a portrait of agony, my face paling even further. This strategic retreat was a direct assault on the control-obsessed psyche of a man like Asher Prescott.
His child, his… woman. As if anyone else had the right to decide their fate.
He pushed me back down onto the mattress, the force of it betraying the storm raging inside him.
“My child. My decision,” he growled, his voice a low command. “You’re not going anywhere until I say so.”
His tone was so absolute it startled me. Then, the tears I’d been holding back began to fall, silent, streaming down my face. Not the loud, hysterical sobbing of a tantrum, but the heartbreaking, muffled weeping of someone who has given up all hope. It was a cry scientifically engineered to trigger a man’s guilt and protective instincts.
And it worked. The hard lines of Asher’s face softened slightly. He even looked, for a moment, like he wanted to wipe my tears away, his hand hovering awkwardly in the air before retreating.
He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a folder and a sleek, black credit card, tossing them onto the nightstand.
“That’s the property transfer for the Greenwich estate. And an Amex Centurion card, no limit.”
His voice was still cold, but the words were pure gold.
“Move in. Rest. And don’t cause any more trouble.”
He gave me one last, long look, then turned and left the room.
I stared at the documents and the card, my heart doing a victory lap.
(Whoa! Mom, you’re a genius! One part damsel in distress plus one part strategic retreat equals a private estate and a black card!)
(Dad is totally eating this up. The whole ‘I protect what’s mine’ narrative? It’s his favorite fantasy!)
My baby’s praise was intoxicating. I picked up the black card, holding it up to the light, admiring its sleek, understated power. As of today, I was a woman with no limits.
Just as I was basking in the glow, the door swung open. It was Seraphina. Her public mask was gone, replaced by an expression of pure, venomous jealousy.
“Don’t get cocky, Maya.”
“How long do you think your pathetic little tricks will work on Asher?”
“He loves me. You’re nothing but a broodmare.”
I leaned back against the pillows, lazily waving the black card in my hand.
“Is that so?” I smiled, a picture of unbothered calm. “Because right now, your Asher is laying his entire world at the feet of this ‘broodmare.’”
“Things have changed, Seraphina. In this day and age, love alone won’t keep you warm at night.”
3
I dutifully moved into the sprawling, secluded estate in Greenwich.
But I didn't go on a wild shopping spree, maxing out the unlimited black card like some lottery winner.
(Mom, you’re finally using your brain. The real final boss isn't Seraphina; it's my dad's grandmother, the Prescott family matriarch.)
(There are two kinds of people she despises: gold diggers who reek of new money, and people like Seraphina, those pretentious types who talk about art and philosophy.)
(To her, playing the piano is just a frivolous hobby, something for the help. It’s not ‘serious work.’)
Heeding my baby’s warning, I pivoted my strategy.
I hired a team of top nutritionists, and my daily meals were tailored to a strict prenatal regimen. I dismissed most of the superfluous household staff, keeping only a cook and a cleaner.
I didn’t spend my newfound free time at spas or designer boutiques. Instead, I went to the estate’s library, found a collection of classic literature and a few guides on calligraphy, and started to teach myself. I even bought a beautiful porcelain tea set and began studying the quiet art of the tea ceremony.
My goal was to transform myself into a vision of grace, tranquility, and traditional elegance.
Sure enough, less than two weeks later, a vintage, deep-green Bentley with discreet diplomatic plates rolled silently up the driveway.
Matilda Prescott, the true power behind the Prescott throne, had arrived for an unscheduled inspection, her own staff in tow.
When the news reached me, I was wearing a simple linen dress, sitting by the window, practicing my calligraphy. My lettering was amateurish, clumsy even, but my posture was perfect, my expression one of deep concentration.
That was the first thing the matriarch saw when she entered the room.
She didn’t look at me. Her sharp eyes swept the villa first. No mountains of shopping bags, no signs of loud parties. The house was as quiet as a monastery. A flicker of surprise, almost imperceptible, crossed her face, but her expression remained a stony mask.
“You’re the one they call Maya?” she finally asked, her voice aged but strong.
I put down my pen, rose to my feet, and gave her a small, respectful bow. “Mrs. Prescott. It’s an honor to meet you.”
She offered no pleasantries in return. Instead, she gestured to one of her attendants, who promptly set up a chessboard on the table between us.
“Do you play?”
“A little,” I answered honestly. “But I’m not very skilled.”
“Sit.”
It was a test, plain and simple.
I took a deep breath and sat across from her.
My chess skills were, as I’d said, terrible. Within half an hour, she had decimated my defenses. I had no chance. But I never grew flustered or impatient. When I lost, I conceded gracefully, my demeanor humble and respectful.
Halfway through the game, her private phone rang. It was Seraphina, no doubt calling to tattle on me. Her syrupy voice drifted from the receiver: “Matilda, darling, Asher is…”
Matilda Prescott’s brow furrowed in annoyance after just two words. Her eyes flashed with displeasure as she ended the call without a word.
“Tiresome,” she muttered under her breath.
When the game ended in my complete and utter defeat, her gaze fell upon a small, warming bowl on the desk beside me.
“What is this?”
“It’s a tonic for the baby, Mrs. Prescott,” I explained softly. “My nutritionist recommended it.”
She studied me for a long, silent moment, her eyes, weathered by decades of power and intrigue, seeming to peer directly into my soul.
Finally, she slipped an antique sapphire pendant from her own neck and placed it on the chessboard.
“Wear this. It will keep you calm.”
Her tone was still cold, devoid of any warmth. I accepted it with both hands, my mind racing.
(Take it, you fool! That’s not just any necklace!) My baby was practically doing somersaults. (That’s a Prescott family heirloom! It’s only given to the woman the family officially recognizes as the next matriarch! Congratulations, Mom, you just passed the first round of interviews!)
4
Seraphina must have heard through the grapevine that I had somehow earned the matriarch’s approval. The news reportedly sent her into such a rage that she nearly smashed her multi-million-dollar Stradivarius.
Head-on attacks weren’t working. Tattling to the matriarch had backfired.
She decided to change tactics, to use the one weapon she believed gave her an insurmountable advantage: her “art.”
A short time later, a high-profile charity gala was announced, set to take place at New York's most exclusive hotel. The host of the event was none other than Seraphina Dubois.
She called me personally, her voice dripping with flawless, saccharine politeness, to insist that I attend as her guest of honor.
I knew it was a trap. But I also knew I couldn’t refuse.
The night of the gala, I arrived in an elegant but understated gown that Asher had selected for me. Seraphina was the center of attention, a queen holding court. When she saw me, she glided over, a champagne flute in hand.
“Maya, darling. I’m so glad you could make it.” Her smile was a perfect, predatory thing.
Halfway through the evening, Seraphina took to the stage and made a stunning announcement. She intended to donate her most prized personal possession—a classic painting titled Madonna and Child—directly to me, as a blessing for my unborn baby.
A spotlight instantly swiveled and pinned me in its glare. Every eye in the room turned to me.
Two attendants wheeled out a massive, velvet-draped easel. With a flourish, Seraphina unveiled the painting. On the canvas, a serene mother held her infant son, her expression a holy, sorrowful mixture of love and piety.
The assembled elites began to murmur in admiration.
“My God, Seraphina is just too kind, too generous!”
“I’ve heard of this piece! She acquired it at a small, private auction in Geneva. It’s her absolute favorite.”
“To have her man stolen by a rival and still offer such a profound blessing… that’s a level of class most people can only dream of.”
Seraphina stood on the stage, bathing in their praise, looking for all the world like an angel gracing us with her presence. She held a microphone out towards me. “Maya, please, come and accept my most sincere blessing.”
I was trapped. Roasted alive on a spit of public opinion.
If I accepted the gift, I was admitting to her superior grace and my own lowly status.
If I refused, I was petty, ungrateful, and publicly insulting the city’s artistic darling in front of all of New York society.
Just as I was caught between a rock and a hard place, my baby’s internal alarm system went into overdrive.
(Mom! Do not accept it! Don’t even touch that painting!)
(I remember this from an article I read in my last life! The artist who painted this went completely insane right after finishing it! He murdered his own wife and child, claiming the baby in the painting was cursing him!)
(This isn’t a blessing, it’s a curse wrapped in canvas! She wants to mess with your head, to make you stare at it day and night until you’re a paranoid, weeping mess with prenatal depression!)
A cold sweat broke out across my back. My hesitation hardened into resolve.
So, you want to play dirty? Fine. Let me teach you how the real game is played.
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