Buy the Bastards Some Milk,” My Wealthy Fiancée Laughed While Tossing a Twenty-Dollar Bill at My Ex-Wife. I Had Kicked Her Out a Year Earlier, Convinced

I moved forward, catching her before she hit the ground, pulling her fragile frame into my arms. She didn't fight me this time; she wept into my chest, her fingers clutching at my coat.

“They took her, Rowan!” she sobbed hysterically. “They took my baby girl!”

“Who took her, Maren? Tell me!” I demanded softly, holding her tightly.

“When I was in labor… I was alone in that public clinic,” Maren recounted between desperate breaths. “I delivered the boys first. They were healthy. But then the doctor told me there was a third baby—a girl. She wasn't breathing well. They rushed her away immediately. A day later, a woman in a high-end suit came into my ward with legal documents. She told me the medical expenses for the baby’s heart surgery were over three hundred thousand dollars.”

“Tessa,” I growled.

“She said if I didn't sign temporary medical guardianship over to a specialized foundation, they would let my baby die!” Maren cried, clutching my shoulders. “I had no money, Rowan! I was living in my car! I couldn't pay for the surgery! I had to sign it to save her life! And once I signed, they transferred her to a private facility and banned me from seeing her! They told me if I ever came near your family or tried to contact you, they would terminate the baby's life-support funding!”

The sheer wickedness of the plot took my breath away. They hadn't just destroyed my marriage; they had used my own child as a leverage point to keep Maren terrified, impoverished, and silent.

“What is her name?” I whispered, kissing Maren’s forehead gently.

“Clara,” Maren whimpered. “I named her Clara… after your mother.”

I closed my eyes, feeling a profound sense of anguish and determination. My mother had died when I was young, and Clara was the name I had always dreamed of giving my firstborn daughter. Maren had remembered. Even while being hunted and destroyed, she had loved me enough to hold onto that dream.

“Listen to me, Maren,” I said, lifting her face to look directly into her eyes. “Clara is alive. And I swear on my life, on my father’s memory, and on my soul, I am going to bring our daughter back to you. Today.”

Just then, from inside the small house, two tiny cries sounded out.

Maren wiped her tears and stood up weakly. “Come inside,” she whispered softly. “Meet your sons.”

I walked into the small, clean room. Sitting in two simple wooden cribs were two tiny boys. They had pulled themselves up, holding onto the wooden bars, looking at me with large, innocent blue eyes.

I approached slowly, falling to my knees beside the cribs. As I reached out my hands, both boys reached back, their tiny fingers grasping mine tightly.