Chapter 179

Chapter 179

The cold wind of Zurich hit me head-on. I instinctively pulled my coat tighter, my hand habitually covering my lower abdomen.

As I descended the hospital steps, a dark blue Bentley screeched to a halt at the entrance, tires shrieking against the pavement.

The door flew open, and Jocelyn strode out.

His eyes were bloodshot, those gray-blue irises locked onto me—or more precisely, onto the hand I had placed protectively over my stomach.

He'd clearly been following us or had somehow learned we'd come to the obstetrics department.

"Elena." Jocelyn stopped at the bottom of the steps, his voice trembling, his emotions completely unraveling from that aristocratic composure he usually wore like armor. "What are you doing here? Are you... are you pregnant?"

I looked at his disheveled state, my expression cold. "Yes, I'm pregnant. With Vincent's child."

The words struck like a blade, shattering what remained of Jocelyn's sanity.

His face turned deathly pale, rage and desperation churning in his eyes.

He whipped around toward Vincent and suddenly charged forward like a madman, swinging his fist at Vincent's face.

"You bastard! How dare you get her pregnant! You don't deserve her!" Jocelyn roared hysterically.

Vincent's eyes flashed dangerously, murderous intent blazing as he prepared to retaliate.

But I was faster.

I stepped forward, placing myself directly between them.

I caught Jocelyn's wrist mid-swing with precision, using his momentum to yank him off balance.

Jocelyn stumbled forward, losing his footing.

Without hesitation, I raised my other hand and slapped him hard across the face.

The sharp crack echoed in front of the hospital entrance. Jocelyn's head snapped to the side, a red handprint blooming on his cheek. He froze, staring at me in disbelief.

"Rochester, are you out of your mind?" I glared at him with undisguised disgust. "I'm carrying my fiancé's child. What gives you the right to lose it here? Touch him again, and I guarantee you won't make it off this street alive."

Jocelyn clutched his face, his gray-blue eyes swimming with despair and anguish.

He looked at me, lips trembling violently, but no words came out.

I didn't spare him another glance. Grabbing Vincent's hand, I strode toward the armored Maybach waiting at the curb.

The door shut, sealing that lunatic outside.

"Drive," Vincent ordered coldly, his murderous aura barely contained.

The driver had just released the brake when a tall figure suddenly lunged forward.

Jocelyn threw himself in front of the Maybach, arms spread wide, blocking the vehicle's path.

His hands pressed against the hood, those gray-blue eyes staring at me through the windshield with desperate intensity.

Antonio immediately drew his weapon, pushing open the car door to intervene.

"Don't shoot." I frowned, lowering the window. I wanted to see what other tricks this madman had up his sleeve.

Jocelyn rushed to the window, gripping its edge with white-knuckled hands.

His eyes were red-rimmed, chest heaving violently, all traces of aristocratic dignity completely shattered.

"Elena," his voice was hoarse, barely suppressing a sob, "you can't have his child... I'm your fiancé!"

The statement dropped like a bomb inside the car.

I froze for a second, then found the whole thing utterly absurd.

"Have you lost your mind?" I stared at him like he was completely deranged. "When I was growing up in New York's slums, digging through garbage for moldy bread, I was an orphan. I never had a fiancé, never had any goddamn family. Stop making up these ridiculous connections."

"No, you're not an orphan!" Jocelyn cut me off urgently, his fingers bone-white from gripping so hard. "You have a family, you have parents! They've never stopped searching for you these past twenty years. I've contacted them—they're on their way to Zurich right now!"

My heart skipped a beat.

My mind flashed to the mute old woman at the estate who'd shielded me with her body, and that lab report marked "Rh negative"—the rare blood type.

Could my origins truly be connected to these European old-money families?

But I kept my face impassive.

In this cutthroat world of wealth and power, any sudden claims of "family ties" always came with a price tag.

"There's a limit to storytelling." I sneered, my gaze ice-cold. "What's wrong? Is the Rochester family going broke? Planning to swallow the Lucas family's assets through some pathetic recognition scam?"

Vincent sat beside me, his violent energy reaching a breaking point.

His large hand clamped around my waist, forcefully pulling me against him. With his other hand, he drew the Browning from his waistband, the black barrel extending through the window to press precisely against Jocelyn's forehead.

"Get your filthy hands off her car." Vincent's voice was laced with lethal intent, each word dripping with venom. "Or I'll blow your brains out right here."

Jocelyn completely ignored the gun pressed to his forehead.

He didn't even glance at Vincent, his gaze locked unwaveringly on my face.

With trembling hands, he reached into his coat's inner pocket and pulled out a worn leather wallet.

He opened it, extracting a photograph with severely yellowed edges, and held it before me.

"The moment I saw you at that gala, I recognized you." Jocelyn's eyes brimmed with pain, his voice shaking. "Look at this. This was taken before you disappeared."

I lowered my gaze to the photograph.

It showed a little girl, three or four years old, wearing an exquisitely tailored French lace princess dress, standing in a fountain garden before a magnificent castle.

The girl had features identical to mine—especially that tiny red mole on her left earlobe, in exactly the same position.

My breath caught.

It was definitely me. Even though I'd grown up in the slums without any childhood photos, I could clearly see my current features in that young face.

I stared at the photograph, my mind reeling, though I kept my emotions tightly controlled.

"One similar-looking photo proves nothing," I said coldly.

"Back then, your father's enemies kidnapped you for revenge, bribing someone inside the estate." Jocelyn looked at me urgently, as if trying to fill twenty years of emptiness all at once. "We mobilized every resource, searched all of Europe, even tracked leads to the Americas, but we couldn't find you."

He paused, profound anguish flashing in his eyes. "Later, police found a disfigured child's body at a seaside cliff. There was a DNA mix-up. Your parents completely broke down—they thought you were dead."

Jocelyn gripped the window frame, his fingertips trembling. "They've lived with that guilt and pain ever since. Your mother couldn't handle the trauma—her mental state deteriorated. Until I found you again."

Mother's mental state deteriorated.

Those words struck like lightning, illuminating the fog in my mind.

I suddenly thought of the mute old woman back at the estate.