Jasmine Ashford lay on the cold delivery table, dialing her son's smartwatch.

Today was the day she was giving birth to her second child, but the entire family was attending her younger sister Evelyn Ashford’s cello recital.

Her son’s childish face appeared on the screen, but he pouted impatiently and complained, “Mom, why are you calling now? Aunt Evelyn’s recital is about to start! Dad said we can’t take calls during the performance!”

“Sebastian Whitaker, is it your mom again?” Her mother-in-law’s face abruptly filled the screen, her expression dripping with disdain. “Jasmine, it’s not that we didn’t want to bring you to the recital. But your due date is next week—we’re just looking out for you.”

Her adoptive mother chimed in gently from the side, “Don’t be difficult. Stay home and rest like you’re supposed to. There’s no need to compete with your sister for attention. We’ll be back in Salton after the recital tonight.”

A cold ache settled in Jasmine’s chest.

Compete for attention? Since when had she ever done that?

“Mom, I was just hit by a passerby outside the hospital. I’m about to give birth now,” she said through gritted teeth, her voice weak with pain.

But no one on the other end of the line cared to listen.

With a sharp click, the call disconnected.

Her heart twisted violently.

She wasn’t surprised by her adoptive mother’s attitude. After all, she was just the adopted daughter of the Ashford family—how could she compare to their precious jewel?

There was a time when she, too, had been the family’s treasure. But three years ago, she learned the truth: she was merely a stand-in, adopted from an orphanage only because Evelyn had gone missing as a child.

Over the past three years, she’d been constantly reminded that she had stolen everything that rightfully belonged to Evelyn Ashford. Thank heavens their beloved Evelyn had been taken in by kind strangers—who knew what hardships she might have suffered otherwise?

From that moment on, the entire family—including her own husband—had taken Evelyn’s side.

But her son—her precious baby boy—couldn't even spare a moment to hear her out?

Was that damn concert more important than his own mother?

In the delivery room, the doctor’s eyes above the surgical mask were icy as she demanded, “Ms. Ashford, when did your family say they’d arrive? If you’re switching from natural delivery to a C-section now, both you and your family members must sign the consent forms!”

Pale-faced, Jasmine had no choice but to dial Benjamin Whitaker’s number again.

“Benjamin, I’m in labor now. You and Sebastian need to get back to Salton immediately.”

She spoke at length, but the person on the other end seemed oblivious to her words.

Benjamin frowned slightly, his tone indifferent. “Jasmine? Why call if you’re not going to say anything?”

“Daddy, is that Mommy calling?” their son’s childish voice piped up from the background. But his next words sent her heart plummeting into an abyss.

“Ugh, Mommy’s so annoying! Didn’t we just talk?”

“Aunt Evelyn and Mommy are both Grandma’s daughters, so how come Aunt Evelyn’s so nice but Mommy’s such a pain?”

“I wish Aunt Evelyn was my mommy instead.” Jasmine’s already pallid face drained of what little color remained.

It felt like a knife twisting in her heart, carving out the most vital part of her. The pain left her trembling uncontrollably. Perhaps a child’s words carried no malice—but what about Benjamin?

The man who usually drilled manners and propriety into their son couldn’t be bothered to correct him now?

“Hey, Jasmine,” the man’s magnetic voice came through again, this time laced with impatience. “If you’re not going to talk, I’m hanging up.”

Jasmine listened as the call ended with a cold click, a wave of desolation flooding her heart.

Here she was, thirty-nine weeks pregnant, calling him—and he hadn’t even paused to consider if something might be wrong.

He’d hung up on her.

Yet, back when Evelyn had texted him at midnight complaining of a stomachache, he’d thrown on his clothes and rushed her to the hospital without a second thought, leaving Jasmine behind.

She used to think Benjamin was just naturally aloof and distant with everyone. Faced with his icy demeanor, she’d often hesitated to speak too much, believing she could slowly melt that frozen heart with her warmth.

But then Evelyn returned, and Jasmine realized—some things just weren’t meant to be, no matter how hard she tried.

Even so, when Benjamin had mentioned wanting a daughter, she’d endured the pain of a second pregnancy, determined to give him one.

And now?

Here she was, in the hospital, giving birth—while he was off attending someone else’s concert.

So this was how it felt to be the one who wasn’t cherished. The one who could be taken for granted.

It was time for Jasmine to wake up.

Biting her pale lips, she fought through the searing pain in her abdomen and whispered weakly, “Doctor… can I sign for myself? Isn’t it my right to decide whether to deliver naturally or have a C-section?”

“Absolutely not! Hospital policy requires both you and a family member to sign for a switch to C-section! Ms. Ashford, you’re making this very difficult for us.”

If everything went smoothly, fine—but if something went wrong, who would take the blame?

But this family was truly something else—both her husband’s relatives and her own parents had gone off to some concert for her sister.

What kind of priority was that? A concert over their own daughter and wife giving birth?

“Maybe you should try calling your husband again?” the doctor suggested.

But Jasmine just stared blankly at the ceiling, her pain so numbing that it hardly mattered anymore. What if she called, and they still refused to come? She didn’t want to humiliate herself further.

Her expression remained flat. “Doctor, just let me sign the papers. If you’re worried about liability, I’ll write that I take full responsibility for any consequences. Will that work?”

“Well…” Dr. Frank hesitated, but the amniotic fluid had already broken—there was no more time to wait.

Gritting his teeth, he relented. “Fine, go ahead and sign. Just make sure to include what you just said.”

He’d been burned too many times before—some risks were just too great for a doctor to take.

Clenching her jaw against the pain, Jasmine propped herself up on one elbow and signed the document.

“Thank you, Doctor. You can administer the anesthesia now.”

Dr. Frank gave her a curious glance. Even in this much pain, she still knew the procedure so well. Was it because this was her second child?

“Right, we’ll do that. Ms. Ashford, try not to cry. Just relax—your baby will be here soon.”

An hour later, the child was born.

Jasmine opened her eyes weakly, her voice barely a whisper. “Nurse, can I see my baby?”

“Here you go,” the nurse replied warmly, cradling a plump, rosy-cheeked newborn in her arms. “A healthy baby girl, six pounds and three ounces.”

Jasmine gazed at her daughter, whose bright, wide eyes mirrored her own. “She’s perfect,” she murmured, her fingers brushing the baby’s tiny hand. “How about we call you Serena, my little warmth?

The nurse, who had glimpsed Jasmine’s phone contacts earlier, remembered her husband’s surname was Whitaker. “Serena Whitaker? That’s a lovely name.”

“No.

If they couldn’t be bothered to care, then she wouldn’t hold onto them either.

Jasmine shook her head slightly, her voice firm. “My daughter will take my surname.”

Six years. It was time to wake up.

She picked up her phone and sent a text to Benjamin.

Find time to settle the paperwork. You keep the boy. I’ll take the girl. From now on, we’re done.