Chapter 1: Miracle on the Maternity Floor

Marcus Jennings, the Jennings Corporation’s infamous CEO, was the kind of man you’d see glaring out from the business section—always stone-faced, intimidating, untouchable. But the night I was born, he became someone else entirely: the man pacing the hospital floor, hands trembling, barely holding back tears. You’d think I was some kind of miracle baby, or at least the last hope for a man with nothing else left.

But not everyone was thrilled about my arrival. The reborn female lead—spoiled and dramatic—stormed over and sneered, "Just so you know, Dad’s gonna make me his daughter. Don’t even try to steal my spot—my brothers will make your life hell."

She stood there, chin out, arms crossed, acting like she owned the place. Her high-end sneakers squeaked against the polished marble. I just stared at her, counting on my stubby fingers, more confused than worried. Even surrounded by gold-framed portraits and the ticking of the antique grandfather clock, I couldn’t help myself.

I counted on my fingers, pretending to be troubled. "But... Dad’s not gonna let you marry all eight brothers, so good luck with that."

The room went quiet for a second—then someone snorted with laughter out in the hallway.

As my consciousness returned, I felt warmth all around me. It wasn’t just the heavy, humid heat of the hospital room; it was like floating in a bath, cocooned in something thick and soft—amniotic fluid, maybe. I was half-dreaming, half-remembering what it felt like to belong somewhere safe.

What’s going on? Why does it feel like I’m soaking in hot water?

I tried to focus, but there was a heavy pressure on my chest—a suffocating heat. Then voices cut through the haze, too many to count, all blending together.

"Mr. Jennings, hold on! Just a bit more, and the baby will be born!"

The beeping of machines was drowned out by my mother’s screams and the sharp tang of antiseptic that clung to everything. The fluorescent lights above seemed even harsher. The smell of sweat and something metallic filled the air. I heard the rhythmic beeping of a monitor in the corner, loud and insistent.

"Mrs. Jennings, hold on for us. As long as you give birth to the child, we’ll forgive all the Jennings family’s mistakes."

The weight of generations, of legacy, pressed down. The Jennings name meant everything in this city, but now it felt like I was being born with the hope of redemption on my tiny shoulders.

"Even… even if it’s a stillbirth, at least let us see the child…"

The fear and desperation in the voices twisted the room into a place of shadows and secrets. I didn’t want to be the reason for anyone’s sorrow, least of all my own.

Chaotic voices filled my ears, rattling inside my skull, all the words blending together, until it was just a wall of sound threatening to drown me.

I tried to open my eyes, but felt a force pressing down on my head, accompanied by a woman’s pained cries. It wasn’t just my head—the whole world seemed intent on keeping me under. Someone’s hand, gentle yet unyielding, held me steady, guiding me through the final threshold of birth. Somewhere nearby, my mother screamed, her voice raw with agony and hope.

Suddenly, someone grabbed my feet. The sensation was jarring—cold hands on my skin, tugging me into the bright lights of the delivery room. I felt the brush of latex gloves, the rush of air, the thud of my own heart.

My breathing grew more and more stifled. Driven by the will to survive, I instinctively pushed down against the pressure.

A primal instinct surged through me—fight or flight, even before I could see or speak. I squirmed, kicked, clawed my way toward the surface, desperate for that first gasp of air.

At last, the world brightened. A flood of light and sound exploded behind my eyelids. Cold air prickled my damp skin, and I knew—somewhere deep inside—that I was alive.

“It’s a little girl.” The nurse’s voice started out joyful, but suddenly turned into a terrified scream.

The shift in tone cut sharper than a scalpel. It was as if hope itself was snuffed out in an instant, replaced by panic.

“She’s not breathing!”

Silence slammed down. Even the machines seemed to hold their breath, waiting for fate to decide.

Everyone trembled and stood in silence, not daring to look up at the tall man in the dark tailored suit.

He was the kind of man people called ‘sir’ without a hint of irony. His presence filled the room, even as his face crumpled with grief. I felt the weight of his gaze, even though my eyes were still closed.

I was exhausted, not even able to open my eyes, only vaguely aware of someone lifting me up.

The strong hands that cradled me shook with barely-contained emotion. The scent of expensive aftershave and worn leather told me this was a man who lived both in boardrooms and behind closed doors.

Instinctively, I held my weak breath. The person before me withdrew trembling fingers, staggered, and spoke with deep grief:

“Give my daughter… a proper burial. Lay her to rest in the family plot…”

The words fell like a stone in a silent lake. There was finality in his tone, but also a promise—a promise of dignity, even in death. A legacy that would not be erased, not even by tragedy.

The beautiful woman on the bed, hearing this, instantly lost all color from her already pale face, leaving only sorrow.

Her eyes, once full of dreams and ambition, now seemed hollow, drained by loss. The lines on her face deepened, her lips trembling. The hope she’d clung to slipped away like water through her fingers.

Grandma Carol, who rushed over, rolled her eyes and collapsed, clutching her chest: “My precious granddaughter, oh Lord… why must you treat our Jennings family this way!”

The wail echoed through the halls, a sound that could shatter stained glass. Outside the hospital window, the city kept on moving, unaware that the Jennings legacy teetered on the edge of extinction.