The hospital room was quiet now. Too quiet.
The nurse had stepped out to "try Max Botho's office line again," but Melissa knew how this game worked. Max was powerful, untouchable. The kind of man whose lawyers got there before the ambulance. He didn't do consequences. He didn't do accountability.
But he was about to do her.
Well figuratively. This time, she'd be the one flipping the script.
She shifted, adjusting to the weight of her pregnant belly. Her body was sore in places Melissa didn't know could ache. Naledi's body. Her new prison. Her second chance.
She looked at her reflection in the dark window.
Naledi was beautiful. Naturally glowing skin. High cheekbones. Glossy box braids. Maybe 24, tops. A baby face with a bombshell body that looked both soft and lethal. A face Max wouldn't recognize sober… and apparently hadn't even remembered drunk.
Melissa let out a soft, bitter laugh.
The irony was delicious. She'd spent her first life chasing justice. This one? She'd chase power. For her baby. For her revenge. For herself.
Because the old Melissa Chaba had been silenced.
But Naledi?
Naledi could walk right into Max Botho's life and blow it to hell. Two hours later, the nurse returned wide-eyed, breathless.
"He's on his way," she whispered like someone announcing a celebrity resurrection. "Max Botho. Himself."
Melissa didn't flinch.
She already knew.
Because powerful men didn't respond to threats. They responded to mystery.
And her message had been perfect.
"The mother of your child remembers everything."
The hospital suddenly turned into a beehive of whispers. Staff fixed their uniforms. A doctor adjusted his tie. One nurse reapplied lip gloss. Everyone knew the name Max Botho.
And everyone wanted to say they saw him in real life.
Melissa fixed her posture, wiped the oil off her lips, and waited.
The first sign of him was the scent.
Expensive. Sharp. Like clean steel and wild ambition.
Then came the footsteps. Slow. Precise. Each one sounding like it had a destination and didn't care who it crushed on the way there.
Melissa's breath caught.
He walked in.
Max Botho looked exactly the same and yet worse. Worse because she could see it now how effortless he made cruelty look.
Charcoal tailored suit, crisp black shirt underneath, no tie. Diamond-studded watch that caught the light like a weapon. Jaw clenched. Eyes hidden behind black shades.
But the arrogance?
Unmistakable.
He paused at the door. Removed the glasses slowly. Scanned the room like a battlefield.
His eyes met hers.
Melissa gave him a polite, tight smile. "Hi, baby daddy."
Max's nostrils flared.
"You called me," he said flatly. His voice was deep. Rich. It vibrated more than it spoke. "Why?"
Melissa tilted her head, letting her braids fall to the side.
"You got me pregnant, ghosted me, and let your lawyers handle it. But I forgive you. Must've been hard not knowing if I'd wake up."
He stared at her like she was speaking in riddles.
"I don't remember that night."
"Of course you don't," she said sweetly. "You were drunk. And I was… naïve."
She watched his eyes flicker, just a moment, then harden again.
"What do you want?" he asked.
There it was. The line rich men always used when they knew they'd messed up and had to clean it quietly.
Melissa leaned forward.
"I want you to take responsibility. Not for the baby. For me. For us. I want to know why the Max Botho a man with a private jet and a reputation for breaking things thinks he can hit and run without consequences."
He flinched. Subtly. But it was there.
"I didn't hit anyone."
Melissa smiled slowly. "Did I say car? Funny how you jumped to that."
Max took a step closer, scanning her face. For the first time, she saw it—the uncertainty. The way his eyes lingered on her like a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.
"You're not the girl I remember," he murmured.
"Maybe I grew up."
"No," he said. "You changed."
The tension crackled.
Melissa stood up slowly, balancing the belly, letting him see how she moved now. Stronger. Heavier. More dangerous.
"I died," she said bluntly.
Max blinked.
She took another step toward him. "Figuratively. Emotionally. Spiritually. Whatever you want to call it. The old Naledi? She died when she realized you were never going to call."
Max's jaw flexed.
"You want money?"
She laughed. "Do I look like a GoFundMe, Max?"
He smirked. "You look like a problem."
"Oh, sweetheart," Melissa said, brushing past him slowly, "I'm your problem."
The next morning, it hit the tabloids.
"Max Botho Spotted Visiting Baby Mama in Public Hospital: Is the Diamond Prince Finally Taking Responsibility?"
Melissa sipped tea in her hospital bed and scrolled through the headlines with a smirk.
The plan had begun.
She had his attention.
And soon?
She'd have his empire.