Chapter 57
James hid every shred of rage and struggle behind that cold, merciless mask. He took a long stride forward, pushed the door open, and walked into the ICU.
At the sound behind her, Charlotte, sitting at the bedside, jerked so hard she started shaking.
She whipped around in panic, and when she met James's pitch-black eyes—eyes that looked at her like she was already dead—her legs went weak. She nearly slid off the chair.
"James…" Charlotte immediately put on her most helpless face, tears spilling fast, one after another.
She even reached for the hem of his jacket without caring how it looked, but he dodged her with open disgust.
"James, please, let me explain. The school called and said Jasper was being resuscitated. I was terrified. I didn't even think—I just ran here." Charlotte sobbed like her heart was breaking, and even as she cried, she kept sneaking glances at Jasper, still unconscious, as if she were afraid he might wake up and ruin everything.
"If something happens to Jasper, I can't live either. James, I know I messed up. I deserve to die for it." Her voice cracked as she kept going. "Even if you're going to send me to prison, can you at least wait until Jasper's completely better? Let me see him safely discharged. Please."
Looking at the woman who lied as easily as breathing, James felt his disgust turn almost tangible, sharp enough to tear.
He closed in, tall and looming, and the pressure rolling off him made it hard for Charlotte to even draw a full breath.
"Charlotte, spare me the tears." James kept his voice low, but every word cut like ice. "Why was Jasper suddenly poisoned—you know better than anyone. You can do this to a six-year-old and still stand here acting innocent. Just looking at you feels like an insult to my own blood."
Charlotte went paper-white. She opened her mouth to argue—
James's hand shot out and clamped her jaw.
His grip was brutal, like he meant to crush bone.
"The fact that I didn't have someone drag you out today doesn't mean I bought your crap." There wasn't a flicker of mercy in his eyes. "If you try anything else behind my back—anything at all—I swear you'll regret Ethan ever saved me."
Then James released her as if she were something filthy.
Charlotte hit the floor hard, gulping air, sweat soaking her back.
His words were vicious. Still, the terror lodged in her throat eased in a way that was almost strange.
Because he hadn't called the police on her immediately. He hadn't slapped the kind of proof in her face that would end her in one blow.
That meant she'd won her bet.
With Jasper as her trump card, even James—powerful as he was—had to hesitate. In this moment, he couldn't touch her.
"Dad…"
Jasper seemed to wake at the small commotion. He opened his eyes weakly, saw James by the bed, and his mouth trembled before tears slid down his cheeks.
"Dad… my stomach hurts…"
At Jasper's thin, tearful call, James's cold violence vanished as if it had never existed.
He sat at the bedside with deliberate care, wrapped his warm hand around Jasper's free one—the one without the IV—and his voice softened into something deep and aching with a father's tenderness.
"Hey, buddy. I'm here." He brushed his thumb lightly over Jasper's knuckles. "It's going to stop hurting soon."
Jasper hiccuped, and his small body curled instinctively closer, trying to burrow into James.
But the next second, his gaze didn't linger on his father's face. He looked past James's broad shoulder, searching urgently for the figure on the floor.
"Ms. Johnson… is Ms. Johnson still here?"
Jasper's voice shook, loaded with fear. "Dad, don't make Ms. Johnson leave, okay? Ms. Johnson said bad people were bullying her, and the police are gonna take her away… Jasper doesn't want Ms. Johnson to go."
The childlike plea was innocent and cruel at the same time, like a rusted blade sawing back and forth across James's heart.
That poisonous woman—after he'd cut off her escape routes—had already gotten into Jasper's head. She'd even planted something as vicious as being arrested by the police in a six-year-old's mind, without a shred of shame.
Killing intent flashed in James's eyes, sudden and terrifying.
He forced it down. He had to.
"I'm not making her leave." It took everything he had to pull his mouth into something that resembled a smile, even though it looked more like pain. He reached up and wiped the tears at the corner of Jasper's eye with a gentleness that didn't match the storm inside him. "Ms. Johnson isn't going anywhere. She'll stay right here with you."
At James's promise, Jasper's little heart finally settled.
He reached out, clinging to Charlotte's sleeve as she scrambled back to the bedside, and only then did he relax, eyes closing again as sleep dragged him under.
Watching the absurd picture of it—this performance of a loving family—James felt like his soul had been split clean in two.
One half sank into a pit of guilt and self-blame, struggling to breathe. The other burned in the hell of power, consumed by jealousy and bitterness.
He couldn't even bear to imagine Isabella standing at the doorway, seeing this, and looking at him with that kind of cold, mocking contempt.
Night fell over Tech Harbor, and a steady, fine rain put a hazy veil over the city's bright glitter.
On the top floor of Northstar Architecture, the CEO's office was still lit up.
Isabella wore a loose, comfortable light-gray turtleneck, her hair clipped up in a claw clip, and sat on the sofa by the floor-to-ceiling windows, fully absorbed in a confidential geotechnical survey report that had just been delivered by the committee for the Grand Theater project.
After last night's absurd, reckless accident, Isabella acted as if nothing had happened.
She wasn't spiraling like someone drowning in feelings. She wasn't even annoyed about the black velvet dress that had vanished.
Her mind moved fast through complicated data and stress-analysis curves, focused on one thing only: the epic building she was about to shape with her own hands.
The personal phone on the coffee table suddenly lit up, jarring the silence.
Isabella didn't put the report down right away.
Only after she finished the entire page of dense force-distribution charts did she lazily lift a cup of black coffee that had long since gone cold and pick up her phone.
A picture message from an unknown number.
Isabella's long finger slid across the screen.
The next second, a painfully sharp, high-definition photo filled her view without warning.
The background was a private ICU room—expensive, polished, unmistakably high-end.
On the bed, Jasper slept, pale but strangely peaceful, one small hand gripping Charlotte's tightly as she sat at his side.