Chapter 42 Playing Dirty?
Since the day Rufus walked out of her hospital room, he had never come back.
Cecilia had been left alone in the sterile, dim-lit ward, the silence pressing down on her like a physical weight.
Her illness had worsened. Leukemia was already a merciless disease, its flare-ups accompanied by waves of physical agony.
But the experimental injections she had been forced to take before had hollowed her body out, stripping away what little strength she had left.
Daytime was bearable. But at night—when the corridors fell silent, when the only sounds were the steady, mechanical ticks and beeps of the medical equipment—the pain became a living thing.
It pressed against her ribs, coiled around her spine, and filled every breath with jagged edges. Her own breathing turned shallow, uneven, a series of suppressed gasps that seemed to echo in the darkness.
Her abdominal wound burned as if dozens of red-hot needles were stabbing through it again and again. Her stomach felt gripped by an invisible fist, twisting without mercy.
Pain in the dead of night had a different face—more vicious, more relentless—rolling in like tides that threatened to drown the last fragments of her will.
Cold sweat soaked her hair and the thin cotton of her hospital gown, clinging to her skin in clammy patches that sent shivers down her spine.
Cecilia bit down hard on her lower lip, tasting the faint tang of iron before she managed to keep herself from crying out.
And Rufus had taken away every single painkiller the doctors had prescribed for her.
"If you're going to put on a show, then make it convincing," Rufus had said that day, his gaze raised above her as though she were beneath him, his voice cold enough to burn. "Why waste the medication?"
The cruelty was almost laughable.
For Blair, he could demand that Cecilia give up her kidney. He could hide the truth about Patrick's life or death. But he couldn't spare even a few pills to ease her genuine suffering.
She reached for the call button, her fingers trembling violently… only to let her hand fall limp at her side. Even if the nurse came, what could they do? They had no authority to administer medication without orders.
So she endured—alone—until the first light of dawn crept through the blinds. The pain hadn't lessened; it had sharpened, tearing at her nerves as though trying to split them apart.
When she could no longer bear it, Cecilia gathered what little strength remained and dragged herself out of bed.
She clung to the doorframe for support, her face drained of all color, and made her way to the office of her attending physician, Atlas Myers.
She leaned against the doorway, her voice so faint it was almost swallowed by the hum of the fluorescent lights. "Please… could you prescribe me something for the pain?"
Atlas looked up at her, surprise flickering across his features, followed by a brief flash of pity.
But it vanished quickly, replaced by resignation. He lowered his gaze to the chart in his hands, his tone formal and detached. "Ms. Thorne, I'm sorry. Mr. Chapman has given explicit instructions—your medication must have his approval. Please… don't put me in a difficult position."
Rufus again.
His name felt like a cold shackle, locking her deeper into the pit of despair.
"I just need something to ease the pain from the leukemia," she said, her voice trembling, her body bent slightly from the agony.
Atlas shifted his gaze away, unable to meet the raw plea in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Ms. Thorne. It's the policy. Without Mr. Chapman's signature, we can't…"
She barely heard the rest. A dull ringing filled her ears, and her vision darkened at the edges.
She didn't remember walking out of Atlas's office. All she knew was that the last thread of hope had snapped.
Was she supposed to crawl to Rufus like some begging dog, pleading for a handful of pills?
No. She couldn't. The moment she learned Patrick might already be gone, her feelings for Rufus had calcified into bitter hatred and a cold, dead indifference.
And then—a wild thought took root in her mind.
She knew the dispensary beside the nurses' station kept a stock of emergency drugs. Perhaps… she could go there. And take what she needed.
The thought made her shiver with shame. She had never done anything so degrading in her life.
But pain had stripped her of every shred of dignity, every fragment of reason. In that moment, she wanted only one thing—to grasp at anything that could free her from this hell, no matter the cost.
She waited for the brief lull when the nurses switched shifts. Then, moving on unsteady legs, she slipped into the dispensary.
The air inside was thick with the sharp scent of disinfectant, mingled with the faint chemical tang of stored medications. Her hands shook uncontrollably as she rummaged through drawers, the clink of glass vials sounding far too loud in her ears—like thunder in the stillness.
At last, she found them: ampoules labeled with the name of a drug that could dull her pain.
Relief flooded her like a drowning person finding a piece of driftwood. Without hesitation, she grabbed several and shoved them into the deep pockets of her gown.
She thought she had been discreet. But just as she turned to leave, the door swung open.
Blair stood there, her expression painted with just the right amount of surprise and concern. But her eyes were sharp as blades, and her lips curved into a smile that was anything but kind.
Meanwhile, in the VIP lounge at the top floor of the hospital.
Rufus stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing down at the waking city. His brow was furrowed, his thoughts unreadable. He hadn't slept all night. In his mind, Cecilia's tear-filled, despairing eyes replayed again and again.
"You're using the same tactic again?"
"Rufus… I'm tired."
Her voice had been calm—too calm—like the stillness after death. And the scar on her abdomen, raw and jagged, haunted him like a curse.
If she had truly been faking, how could any normal person remain in a prolonged coma after a liver resection?
That pallor, the beads of cold sweat, the weakness that forced her to cling to walls just to walk… if it was an act, it was flawless beyond belief.
And that scar—the stitches were still visible, the tissue around it swollen and inflamed from surgery. It wasn't something she could have fabricated in a matter of days.
A ripple of doubt spread through his mind, like a stone breaking the surface of a still lake.
Had he missed something?
He was about to go to Atlas himself when his phone rang sharply.
It was Jason, Blair's attending physician.
"Mr. Chapman, this is bad!" Jason's voice was urgent. "Miss Ember's most critical post-surgery anti-rejection drug—the imported one—was just found missing during inventory. We suspect it's been stolen!"
Rufus's pupils contracted.
Stolen? Now, of all times?
He thought instantly of Blair's fragile stability. Without that drug, the consequences would be catastrophic.
Anger surged through him, burning away the small flicker of doubt he'd felt moments earlier.
Who would dare do this to Blair?
The answer came unbidden, sharp and certain—Cecilia.
In this hospital, only Cecilia harbored such deep hatred for Blair. Only she would stoop to such extremes.
"Lock down the floor. Pull the security footage. Find out who did it," Rufus barked into the phone, his voice cold enough to freeze. "Especially keep an eye on Cecilia. I want her watched."
He ended the call, spun on his heel, and strode toward Blair's observation room, his presence radiating a dangerous, suffocating fury.