Chapter 121

Chapter 121
Rhett's POV

The mansion was blazing with lights as I approached, my footsteps measured and controlled despite the fury building inside me. The two guards posted at the entrance visibly tensed when they saw me. One of them—Philip—had a fresh bruise blooming on his cheekbone.

"What were my instructions?" I kept my voice deliberately soft, which I knew was more terrifying than shouting.

Philip lowered his eyes. "You said to keep Mrs. Hayes inside at all costs until you returned, sir."

"And?"

"She saw the news report about your..." he hesitated, "death. She grabbed my gun and held it to my head. Said she had to go out."

I laughed, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "She held a gun to your head? And that scared you?"

Before he could react, I moved—one fluid motion bringing the barrel of my own weapon against his forehead. The cold metal pressed hard enough to leave a mark.

"Like this?" I cocked the gun with my thumb, never breaking eye contact. "Funny how you're still breathing."

"It wasn't fear, sir." Philip remained at attention, not flinching despite the gun at his head. "It was her eyes. They were... empty. I couldn't bring myself to stop her."

I lowered the gun, something uncomfortable twisting in my chest. "No next time," I warned, returning his weapon.

"Yes, Mr. Hayes."

I entered the foyer, catching the tail end of Claudia's phone conversation in the living room.

"—still unconscious. The doctor's examining her now." She caught sight of me and her expression hardened. "Dad, I'll call you back."

She hung up and stood, eyes blazing. "Rhett fucking Hayes!"

I raised an eyebrow. "Want to take a swing at me, Claudia?"

"Save that pretty face for Sheryl to slap when she wakes up." She jabbed a finger in my direction. "You better pray she wakes up soon."

The sound of footsteps on the stairs drew our attention. Dr. Winters descended with his assistant, medical bag in hand.

"How is she?" I moved toward them, anxiety clawing at my insides despite my controlled exterior.

"Mrs. Hayes is suffering from emotional trauma-induced unconsciousness," the doctor explained. "Her body's protecting itself by shutting down. You need to wake her soon."

"What happens if we don't?" I asked, throat tight.

"In cases of severe psychological trauma, the mind can retreat into itself. The longer she stays in this state, the higher the risk of developing serious psychiatric issues."

"You mean she could become—" Claudia started.

"Mentally unstable, yes," Dr. Winters confirmed with a nod.

The words hit me like a physical blow. Mental instability. My mother's fate. The most important woman in my life had descended into madness when I was six, and I'd be damned if I'd let it happen to my wife.

"I'll go to her," I said, already heading for the stairs.

"Good call," Claudia called after me. "You're the reason she's like this. Maybe seeing you alive will bring her back."

I pushed open our bedroom door, my steps slowing as I approached the bed. Sheryl looked so small against the king-sized mattress, her normally vibrant presence diminished. Her face was pale, lips dry and colorless. Even in unconsciousness, her brow was furrowed as if trapped in a nightmare.

I sat beside her, gently tracing my finger along her forehead, trying to smooth away the worry lines.

"Sheryl..." Her name came out softer than I intended. "I'm back. Don't you want to open your eyes and see me?"

Her breathing changed, becoming more rapid. A thin sheen of sweat appeared on her forehead as she trembled slightly.

"Don't... don't leave..." The whispered words were barely audible.

I caught her cold hand in mine, pressing my lips to her knuckles. "I'm not leaving. I'm right here. Just open your eyes for me."

My voice cracked slightly. "Wake up, please? You can yell at me, hit me, whatever you want. Just don't stay asleep."

Her fingers suddenly clutched mine with surprising strength.

"Rhett, don't go!" she cried out, her eyes flying open.

Sheryl's POV

"What's wrong?"

Rhett was looking down at me, his expression gentle in a way few people ever got to see. I could only stare, drinking in every feature of his face, afraid he might vanish if I blinked.

His lips curved into that familiar half-smile as he lightly tapped my nose. "What's the matter? Did your nap make you forget how to speak?"

"If I blink," I whispered, my voice rasping painfully, "will you disappear?"

Understanding dawned in his eyes. He guided my hand to his face, letting me feel the warmth of his skin. "Feel that? I'm right here. Very much alive."

Hot tears spilled down my cheeks as my fingers traced his features—the sharp angle of his jawline, the straight bridge of his nose, the softness of his lips. He was warm. Real. Alive.

"Rhett..." My voice trembled. "You're not dead, are you?"

He leaned down, pressing his lips against mine. When he pulled back, the tip of his tongue briefly traced my bottom lip, a familiar gesture that sent warmth through my body. His scent enveloped me—that distinctive blend of sandalwood and mint that was uniquely him.

I broke down then, covering my eyes with my arm as sobs wracked my body. I felt him try to pull my arm away, but I resisted.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I never meant to hurt you like this."

When I still wouldn't look at him, he offered, "You can hit me if you want. Scream at me. Kick me. Anything."

I ignored him, keeping my arm firmly in place. Surprisingly, he didn't lose patience. For what seemed like forever, he stayed beside me, his voice softening to tones I rarely heard.

"Come on, sweetheart. Look at me?"

"Baby, please. Let me see those eyes."

"Sher... please."

His fingers gently stroked mine, tracing patterns on my skin in a silent plea.