Chapter 3

He called my name.

He'd recognized me.

I don't know if he recognized me that night in the examination room but didn't expose me in front of the nurse, or if he only confirmed it later by checking medical records.

It didn't matter anymore.

So what if he recognized me?

My child and I don't need anything from him.

For the follow-up, I'd switch to another hospital.

I immediately called a pediatric director I knew well:

Scheduled for the next day at City Central Hospital. Definitely not Municipal Hospital. Definitely wouldn't see Diego.

That evening, I was at home reviewing the final cooperation contract when the doorbell rang.

The housekeeper went to answer it and soon returned:

"Miss Annie, someone at the door delivered a document envelope. They said it's from the hospital."

In the waterproof envelope was a detailed lab report and a handwritten note. I recognized the handwriting.

It was Diego's.

He'd had the report delivered to my home. He knew my home address—it was in the medical record system.

I put the report in a drawer, crumpled the note into a ball and threw it in the trash, then picked up my phone and sent him a text:

"Report received. Already scheduled follow-up at another hospital. Please don't disturb my life again."

After sending it, I blocked him directly.

After the examination at City Central Hospital, everything was normal—just a simple allergic constitution.

I held Jesse's hand, walking down the steps at the hospital entrance when suddenly a black Maybach smoothly stopped by the roadside.

The black Maybach's door opened, and Diego bent down and stepped out.

He still wore Municipal Hospital's white coat, sleeves rolled to his elbows exposing the clear veins on his forearms. His eyes were bloodshot—clearly he'd rushed over right after surgery. He'd been waiting outside the hospital for a full three hours.

I yanked Jesse behind me.

But Jesse poked his head out from my side, his round eyes brightening as he called out crisply:

"Uncle!"

Diego's gaze fell on the child's face, his Adam's apple rolling hard. Finally he didn't look at the child, his eyes locked deadly on my face, voice hoarse like sandpaper:

"I waited for you for three hours."

I adjusted my mask, voice cold as ice:

"Mr. Diego, you're overstepping. I've seen the child's follow-up results. Everything's normal. No need to trouble yourself."

I pulled Jesse to leave. Diego stepped forward, steadily blocking my path. He didn't touch me, just stood half a step away, pulling a folded document from his white coat pocket and holding it before me.

The document cover bore the logo of a forensic identification center. The moment I opened it, my blood ran cold.

Paternity test report.

The conclusion line spelled it out clearly in black and white: Cumulative paternity index greater than 99.99%, supporting Diego as Jesse's biological father.

The follow-up slip in my hand dropped to the ground with a "thud." My fingertips trembled uncontrollably, yet I still forced out a cold laugh:

"Forging something like this—don't you think that's beneath you, Mr. Diego? I don't accept it."

Diego's voice carried four years of suppressed collapse:

"Annie, four years—did you plan to hide him forever? Plan to let him live without a father his whole life?"

I bent down to pick up the slip, gripping Jesse's hand tightly, and turned to leave, my steps almost fleeing.

This time, Diego didn't stop me.

I got in the car with the child, and the car sped away.

Through the rearview mirror, I saw him slowly crouch down and pick up the crumpled note I'd just dropped—the one he'd written with the follow-up reminder.

I'd clearly thrown it in the trash, but somehow Jesse had secretly retrieved it and tucked it in my bag.