As they approached the double doors of the grand report hall at Riverbend General Hospital, Serena Ashford stopped. She took a deep, shuddering breath, her lungs filling with the heavy, floral scent of expensive lilies and the underlying metallic tang of industrial-grade sanitizer. This was the moment of no return.
She looked down at her hands—reddened and slightly calloused from years of manual labor, a far cry from the manicured, soft hands of the highborn lady she used to be. She smoothed her hair, which was tied back in a simple, practical knot, and tried to summon even a fraction of the poise she had once worn like armor. This wasn't about her pride anymore; it was about Lemon Faulkner’s life. If she had to walk through a gauntlet of whispers and ridicule to get her daughter in front
