chapter 113
Sebastian's POV:
The sterile hospital smell hit me first.
My body felt like it had been run through a meat grinder, every breath sending sharp protests from my bandaged ribs.
But none of that mattered. My mind kept circling back to those three words she'd sobbed out while I lay bleeding on the asphalt—'I love you.'
Elena had said she loved me. Even through the haze of surgery and sedation, those words had anchored me, pulled me back from the edge.
The pain in my ribs seemed almost insignificant compared to the fierce joy burning in my chest.
They'd moved me to the VIP suite on the top floor, all marble and mahogany pretense. The private nurses fluttered around me like anxious moths, adjusting monitors and IV drips, until I dismissed them with a look that sent them scurrying to their station outside.
I'd barely settled into the ridiculous hospital bed when the parade began.
Word travels fast in our circles, especially when the head of the Vane family nearly dies protecting his pregnant wife.
They came in waves: board members with their calculated concern, business partners whose sympathy barely concealed their assessment of my capacity to lead, family lawyers clutching documents like vultures circling a potential corpse.
But Elena wasn't among them. With each new face that wasn't hers, my already frayed temper stretched thinner.
"Sebastian, thank God you're alright." Orson Vane, my father's brother and perpetual thorn in my side, positioned himself at my bedside. "We were all so worried. "
The others murmured their agreement, closing ranks around my bed.
I kept my expression neutral, though every instinct screamed to bare my teeth at these circling sharks.
" We heard about what happened—how you had to throw yourself in front of that truck to save Miss Ross."
"Such a tragic pattern emerging," Orson continued, his voice dripping with false concern. " She seems to be... how shall I put it... a magnet for disaster."
He leaned in closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Perhaps once she's delivered the heir, it would be wise to reconsider the arrangement. The family's safety must come first, after all."
He let the suggestion hang in the air like poison. The others shifted, some nodding, others watching my reaction with predatory interest.
The rage that had been simmering beneath my skin erupted.
Despite the screaming protest from my ribs, I pushed myself upright, my hand closing around the green apple some well-meaning nurse had left on my bedside table. Without hesitation, I hurled it at Orson's head with all the force my battered body could muster.
It connected with a satisfying thud, and he staggered backward, hand flying to his forehead where an impressive welt was already forming.
The room erupted in gasps and shuffled feet as everyone took an instinctive step back.
"I'm not dead yet," I said, my voice carrying all the arctic fury of a winter storm. "And some of you seem far too eager to make decisions on my behalf."
I swept my gaze across the assembled relatives and associates, letting them see the promise of retribution in my eyes.
"Let me be crystal clear—Elena is my wife. She is the mother of my child. She is the future mistress of this family. Anyone who dares to speak against her, who shows her even the slightest disrespect, will discover exactly how creative I can be with a scalpel."
The door opened then, and my grandmother swept in. Her cane clicked against the floor with each measured step, and her gaze swept over the assembled group with undisguised disdain.
"Out," she commanded, not raising her voice but filling it with enough authority to move mountains. "All of you. My grandson needs rest, not a audience of vultures."
They filed out like scolded children, Orson still clutching his forehead and shooting me one last venomous look. I met it with a smile that promised worse than apples if he tried again.
When the door closed behind the last of them, Margaret approached my bed, studying me with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. "Just woke up and already causing chaos. You need to be careful with your body—you nearly died, Sebastian."
"Where's Elena?" The question came out more desperate than I intended.
Her expression softened.
"The poor child was terrified. She's been standing guard outside your door like a lost soul, still in those blood-stained clothes. I finally convinced her to go home, change, and rest for a moment."
She patted my hand gently. "She just got word you're awake. I imagine she's already on her way."
True to her prediction, it wasn't more than a few minutes before Elena appeared in the doorway like a vision—pale and drawn, her eyes red-rimmed from crying, clutching a thermos container like a lifeline.
The dress she wore couldn't hide how fragile she looked, how the events of the past day had shaken her to her core.
Margaret squeezed Elena's shoulder gently. "Take care of him, child. And don't let him play the tyrant."
Then, to the nurses and security outside: "Give them privacy. No one enters without my express permission."
The moment the door closed, I let the mask fall.
The strong, commanding Sebastian Vane crumbled, and I became what I truly was—a man desperate for the woman he loved.
I watched her intently as she moved to my bedside, tracking every small gesture.
My eyes devoured her face, searching for traces of the woman who'd screamed 'I love you' while I bled out on the pavement.
"Does it hurt?" Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper, and her eyes swept over my bandages with such raw concern it made my chest tight. She leaned closer, her hand hovering uncertainly near mine. "How are you feeling? Is there anything—anywhere that's uncomfortable? "