chapter 155
Scarlett's POV:
I closed the tablet quickly, composing myself. "Tell him I'll be there shortly."
John was standing by the window when I entered, his broad shoulders blocking out the afternoon sun. Even after all these years of marriage, he still commanded a room with his mere presence.
"Scarlett." He didn't turn around. "How are you feeling today?"
"Well enough." I took my usual seat across from his desk, noting the medical files spread across its surface. "What is this about?"
He finally faced me, and I caught something in his expression—concern? Calculation? With John, it was often hard to tell.
"I'd like you to have another check-up," he said carefully, his fingers drumming against the desk. "A comprehensive one."
I frowned, straightening in my chair. "The doctors said I was fully recovered. "
"Yes." He nodded slowly, but his eyes never left mine. "It's been some time since the last tests. I want to ensure nothing has changed."
"Fine," I said, the word tasting like surrender on my tongue. "When?"
"Tomorrow morning. I've already made the arrangements."
---
The next morning, we were in the sterile corridors of the Hospital.
I stared at the report in my hands—all clear, just as I'd expected. The doctor's words echoed in the consultation room: "Everything looks excellent, Mrs. Smith. Just maintain a balanced diet and regular exercise."
"See?" I held up the papers, forcing lightness into my tone. "Nothing to worry about. I told you I was fine."
"Yes." John's response was automatic, distracted.
He nodded, but his jaw remained tight, his fingers drumming against his thigh in that telltale pattern of his when something was weighing on him. "That's... good. Very good."
John's POV:
After dropping Scarlett at her apartment, I made my excuses about a conference call and drove straight back to the hospital. Dr. Miller was waiting in his office, the real report already on his desk.
"Mr. Smith." He didn't bother with pleasantries, his expression grave. "I'm afraid my concerns from the last examination were justified."
I sank into the chair, my hands steady despite the roaring in my ears. "Tell me."
"The blood work anomalies we noticed six weeks ago weren't temporary fluctuations." He slid the report across the desk, his finger pointing to numbers that meant nothing and everything. "The leukemia has returned. We're looking at an aggressive relapse."
The words hit like physical blows, each one precise and devastating. I'd built an empire on controlling variables, on anticipating outcomes. But this—
"Treatment options?" My voice remained level, professional.
Twenty years of boardroom warfare had taught me to never show weakness, even when the ground was crumbling beneath me.
"Given the aggressive nature of this relapse..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "She'll need a bone marrow transplant. The sooner we find a match, the better her chances."
I stared at the report—the one I couldn't let Scarlett see, not yet.
"Start the donor search immediately," I said. "Spare no expense. And Doctor—she's not to know. "
---
Back in my study, I poured myself a scotch and waited.
The amber liquid sat untouched as Alan arrived, his expression already grim—he knew I only summoned him after hours for matters of absolute importance.
"The donor from three years ago," I said without preamble. "Can we reach them again?"
Alan's shoulders tensed. "I've already checked, sir. They've developed a chronic condition that disqualifies them from donation. Even if they were willing—"
"They can't." I finished for him, the words bitter.
I turned to the window, watching the city lights blur in the distance. There was only one option left—the one I'd hoped never to pursue but had been preparing for nonetheless.
"Book two tickets to St. Valen City," I said quietly. "First available flight."
The silence stretched between us, heavy with implication. Alan knew the history—knew what I was suggesting.
"Her daughter is the only viable match," I continued, my voice hardening. "Blood relatives have the highest compatibility rates."
"Mr. Smith..." Alan chose his words carefully. "My sources indicate she may be... in a delicate condition."
Pregnant. He meant pregnant.
I'd heard the rumors, seen the surveillance reports. Sebastian Vane's child, growing inside the only person who could save Scarlett's life.
"I'm aware." The crystal tumbler hit my desk with a decisive crack. "It changes nothing. Scarlett dies without that transplant, and Elena Ross is going to provide it."
Alan's discomfort was palpable, but he knew better than to argue. He'd seen what I was capable of when Scarlett's life hung in the balance. There were no lines I wouldn't cross, no moral boundaries that mattered more than her survival.
"Arrange everything," I ordered. "And Alan? Not a word to Scarlett about the true purpose of our trip. "
He nodded and left, leaving me alone with my plans.
I picked up Elena's photo from my desk—recent surveillance from St. Valen. She looked so much like Scarlett at that age, the same delicate features, the same ethereal beauty.
A pity, really. But Scarlett would always come first in my world.
The same blood that would save her mother's life, whether she consented or not.
Sentiment was a luxury I couldn't afford. Not when Scarlett's life hung in the balance. Elena Ross would donate that marrow, and if Sebastian Vane stood in my way, I'd destroy him too. I'd built an empire on harder choices than this.
The flight would leave tomorrow night. By week's end, I'd have what Scarlett needed.
Nothing else mattered.