The woman, overwhelmed by labor pains, tried calling her husband. He answered while holding his mistress in one arm, his phone in the other, his tone cold and detached. “If it’s a girl, I’m not raising her. She’ll just clutter up the house… Go stay with your parents.” Then he ended the call. The next day, when he returned home, what he found shook him completely.

“You are saying that while your child is being born,” Hannah cried as her body trembled from pain.

“I am busy, figure it out yourself,” he replied before ending the call.

She stared at the phone in disbelief until another contraction forced a cry from her throat, and she stumbled into the hallway while clutching the railing for support. Her voice reached Mrs. Carter, the elderly widow downstairs, and within minutes the older woman rushed up, saw Hannah’s pale face, and immediately called an ambulance.

While Hannah was carried down the stairs on a stretcher, Andrew was nowhere near Portland. He was inside a luxury hotel in Aspen, lying across clean white sheets with a glass of bourbon in his hand, while beside him lay his young assistant Ashley, laughing softly.