Chapter 62 Pre-Wedding Chaos

Chapter 62 Pre-Wedding Chaos
Alexander’s POV

The days before a wedding should feel like heaven—champagne bubbles, soft silk, her smile lighting up every room. But our days? They’re wired with tension. Static. Suspicion.

I feel it in my bones. Something is coming.

Ivy and I are on edge. I catch her glancing over her shoulder too often, clutching her belly like she’s protecting something sacred—and she is. My child. Our future.

I'm in my office, buried in a mountain of pre-wedding chaos, pretending I give a fuck about centerpieces and cake flavors, when my phone buzzes.

I almost don’t answer.

Almost.

Then I see the number. One of my security detail. Not the kind of man who calls unless something’s gone very fucking wrong.

I swipe the screen. “Yeah?”

His voice is clipped, urgent. “It’s Ivy. Sir… there’s been an accident.”

And just like that—everything inside me stops.

“What?” My voice is ice. “Where the fuck is she?”

“She’s being rushed to St. Vincent’s. A car hit her—driver didn’t stop. She’s alive… but it’s bad.”

That’s all I hear.

The phone clatters to the floor. My chair screeches backward. I’m already running.

The ER doors slam open with a gust of wind and fury as I barrel through. The receptionist barely gets a word out before I’m halfway down the hall. I can smell antiseptic, blood, and the thick, choking scent of my own panic.

I find her in a stark white room, machines beeping, tubes tangled around her arm, bruises blooming like violets on her pale skin.

My Ivy.

She's Unconscious. Fragile.

A nurse tries to stop me. “Sir, please, you can’t—”

I shove past her like she’s nothing but smoke. “She’s mine.”

I sit down at her side, trembling hands reaching for hers. She’s warm. Still warm. But her face…

Fuck.

I lean down, brush my lips against her knuckles. “You’re not leaving me, Baby Girl. Not like this. Not ever.”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

But I see her chest rising. Steady. Shallow.

She’s fighting.

And god help whoever did this to her. Because they just declared war on the wrong man.

The waiting room smells like bleach and desperation.

I’ve been pacing like a caged animal for two hours, stuck outside Ivy’s room while the doctors run tests. No one tells me shit. They keep using that same patronizing tone, like I’m going to break the moment someone says the word complication.

They’re wrong. I don’t break. I burn.

And someone’s about to get scorched.

My phone buzzes.

It’s Jace—one of my most trusted men.

“They found the driver,” he says before I even speak. “It wasn’t random.”

I close my eyes, grinding my teeth so hard I taste blood. “Go on.”

“They’re from her family. Your dead wife’s bloodline. They’ve been waiting to make a move.”

Of course. Those sick fucks have been lurking in the shadows for years, feeding off their own bitterness, blaming me for a war their father started and lost. They think Ivy’s my weakness. Think hurting her is some kind of justice.

They’re wrong.

Hurting Ivy isn’t justice. It’s suicide.

My knuckles crack as I clench my fist. “I want everything on them. Now. Names, addresses, assets. I’m going to bleed them dry.”

“I figured you’d say that.” He hangs up.

I slide the phone back into my pocket just as the double doors fly open and chaos barrels through in the form of one very familiar, very loud hurricane.

“Where the fuck is she!?” Jess’s heels slam against the tile like war drums. “I swear to God, if she so much as has a scratch—”

“She’s fine,” I growl before she even spots me.

She whips around, eyes blazing, finger already pointed like a damn pistol. “Fine?! Fine!? Do you hear yourself, you overgrown billionaire rage puppet? She was hit by a fucking car! That’s not fine, Alexander!”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Don’t make me throw you out of this hospital.”

She gets right up in my face. “Try it. I’ll have you sued for emotional trauma and endangerment of my best friend’s uterus.”

I stare at her, jaw twitching but she doesn’t flinch.

God, I fucking hate how much I respect that.

“She’s stable,” I grit out. “They’re running tests. Nothing’s broken. Bruised ribs, mild concussion. And the baby’s okay.”

Jess blinks. Her shoulders sag with relief. “Shit.”

I nod.

Then she punches me in the arm. Hard.

“OW—What the fuck, woman?!”

“That’s for letting this happen!” She paces, throwing her hands around like she’s directing a dramatic opera. “You’re supposed to be the rich, overprotective, psychotic, alpha male fiancé, remember?! How the hell did someone get to her?”

To Be Continued…