"You have to leave her," the low voice commanded darkly.

"I know," she sniffled, and opened the blanket to study the beautiful features of her baby girl. Thankfully, the baby was sound asleep. The heartbroken mother kissed her, trying to send every ounce of love she had in one desperate press to the little one's forehead. This last bit of love was going to have to sustain the girl for a lifetime. Swollen tears ran down and dropped onto the blanket.

"I'm so sorry," the woman whispered. "Please don't hate me and please stay safe."

"That's enough," the man behind her ordered.

The two were standing in front of a large, gray stone building with grand double doors in the center. It sat on the corner of a modest street and rose six floors high.

THE MEYERS INSTITUTE AND ACADEMY 

FOR OPPORTUNITY AND ADVANCEMENT

The name of the building was in bold, no nonsense letters etched into the granite block above the main entrance. About four feet to the left of the doors was a smaller square metal door set about waist high. DELIVERIES was stamped in the center.

The man unlatched and opened the small door. The inside was padded and lined with soft blankets. On the other side of the box was a dark door that was an inside access to the container.

The broken mother gave her daughter one last hug and with a sob, placed the baby gently into the delivery box. She turned away, ashamed and hopeless of what she was doing. She had no idea what kind of life she was condemning her daughter to, but any life was better than no life at all.

The man stepped forward and closed the door gently. He would rather not have to restrain the woman, who would be sure to fight to pick the baby up if it began crying now. The less commotion, the easier it was to quietly walk away, for everybody. He pressed the faded button on the call box next to the delivery door and held it to a count of three. He could faintly hear the buzzer inside over the woman's soft cries.

He turned back to the woman. She wasn't the first one he'd had to escort here, but she carried herself with more grace than the others. But, of course she would. She wasn't the usual whore or mistress that birthed an unwanted child.

Time and again he'd seen needy women, desperate to hold onto their lover, conceive and carry a child, hoping that would force the men they wanted to commit and marry them. Almost always, though, the woman would find herself dropped and abandoned, unable to afford or care for the child that was now a constant burden and reminder of their failure.

The Institute was their best solution. Or so it seemed. The children would be taken care of, fed and educated. Many would go on to be adopted into families, but if not, then they had the skills and education they needed to make it on their own, once they came of age.

But dark rumors circulated about what the Institute did with the anonymously abandoned children. And how they seemed to have unlimited funds.

Whatever it was, the man knew it wasn't his business. The less he knew, the happier he was. He was paid to take orders, not to think.

He motioned the woman to the black car running quietly in the street nearby. With her head held high and silent tears streaking down her face, she paused by the door, refusing to acknowledge him.

He opened the rear passenger door and closed it behind her when she got in, then walked around the car to the other side and joined her in the back seat. He knocked the window beside him twice and the driver pulled smoothly into the street.

The two sat in silence in the dark. The air was heavy throughout the ride. The darkly tinted windows made it impossible to see into the night around them, but neither of them took any care or noticed as they were absorbed in their own thoughts.

After what seemed forever, and the lights of the city far behind, the car turned off and drove down a path too bumpy and unkept to be considered a road. The heavy brush around them slapped and scraped at the car until they broke though into a small clearing next to a shallow creek. The driver used the clearing to turn the car around and faced back the way it came before he stopped.

The man in the back seat got out and went around the car and opened the woman's door. She sat for a moment, gathering her strength, and resolve, before she stepped out. He closed the door and held his hand under her elbow to assist her over the rough terrain. A slight jerk of her arm away from him told him his help was unwanted, so he motioned her toward another, almost identical, black car that was sitting silent and unnoticed on the other side of the clearing. 

Her heart pounded harder with every step she took toward the car. She lifted her eyes up to the half moon, pale behind a thin cloud and whispered a small prayer. Not for herself, her fate was sealed, but for her daughter. 

The rear door of the other car opened and out stepped a man dressed in fine dark gray slacks, expensive leather shoes and a maroon buttoned shirt with the cuffs rolled. He would have been beautiful if his face wasn't so hard and cold.

"Flower," he said calmly and softly. His voice tasted and caressed her name as a lover's would. She closed her eyes and swallowed. He always seemed more gentle when he was the most dangerous.

He approached her and ran the back of his fingers against her cheek, down to her chin and lifted it towards him. It was intimate and soft and any woman would expect a passionate kiss, but she knew better. Try as hard as she might, she couldn't stop the trembles that coursed through her body.

"Delilah," he chided softly. "Why are you so scared, my flower? Look at me."

She kept her eyes closed. His thumb tightened on her chin.

"I said look at me," he commanded.

Delilah opened her eyes and the look she shot at her husband was filled with anger and hate.

"Ah, there you are my venomous little snake." He smiled, then leaned in and kissed her cheek. "What we could have been if you would have been a good wife." He tsked.

"But you thought you were smarter and prettier than you are. Do you know what happens to flowers that become unruly, that try to grow beyond what is healthy for them?" he asked. "They are cut. Trimmed. No matter how beautiful the blossom or promising the bud. It is for their benefit, and the benefit of those around them, so they all can be the best flowers they can be."

He looked at the man behind his wife. "The baby?"

"Delivered anonymously, Mr. Devereux," the man replied.

"Good," Mr. Devereux nodded. Delilah flinched.

"Yes, my little flower. Now that your misbegotten indiscretion has been taken care of, what do we do with you?"

Delilah looked down, then swiftly launched herself at her husband and swung, connecting with his nose. She kicked behind her like a mule to keep her guard off of her but he was quick and grabbed her ankle, jerking up.

"You bitch!" roared Mr. Devereux as she fell to the ground and he bent over, cupping his nose. He stood back up laughing.

"That is your third strike, my dear," he spit a mouthful of blood on the ground next to her.

"Fuck you, Victor," Delilah cursed. 

Victor Devereux crouched next to her, the blood seeping from his nose dripped unnoticed.

"Before I go, I want you to know, Michaela gave me a son almost seven years ago. She knows her place and her role and I will be taking her as my wife."

Victor stood and spat on the ground next to her again.

"And Delilah, thank your father for his money when you see him. I couldn't have done it without you, princess. For that, it will be quick."

Victor turned and walked back to his car. The driver jumped out and held the door for him, proffering a handkerchief. Victor thanked him kindly and got in, gently pressing it to his nose.

Delilah curled into a ball in the dirt, crying, as the car left the clearing.

The guard counted to thirty after he heard the car hit the main road and speed away.

A silenced shot whipped through the clearing and Delilah's world went black.