Chapter 375: Taking the Bullet
The moment Louis saw Charles collapse into Emily's arms, his expression turned stone-cold.
"Stretcher! Lock down the perimeter! Find Kismet!"
His team sprang into action. Some established a security cordon while others rushed forward to apply pressure to the wound, administer oxygen, and assess the injury.
Emily's hands were forcibly pried away, but she clung desperately to Charles's shirt—her only anchor in the chaos.
"I'm going with him." Her voice was raw, barely more than a rasp.
Louis glanced at her, his tone clipped. "Get in."
The ambulance lights sliced through the darkness, sirens wailing as they tore through the night.
As Charles was loaded into the vehicle, his consciousness was already slipping away, eyelashes fluttering like he might fade entirely at any moment.
Emily knelt beside the stretcher, gripping his hand. Her palms were slick with blood. She called to him over and over. "Charles. Can you hear me? Don't you dare leave me."
Charles's fingertips gave the faintest squeeze in response.
That single gesture felt like his last.
The doors slammed shut, and the ambulance rocketed forward.
The hospital corridor was blindingly bright.
The gurney rolled past at breakneck speed, wheels shrieking against the linoleum. Voices overlapped in a flurry of medical jargon—
"Blood pressure dropping."
"Establish IV access."
"Prep for transfusion."
"Notify the OR."
Emily was stopped at the operating room doors, her clothes drenched in blood, hair disheveled, hands still trembling uncontrollably.
She tried to follow, but a nurse blocked her path. "You need to wait outside!"
"I'm his wife."
The words left her lips just as her knees buckled. She nearly collapsed.
Louis caught her by the arm, his voice low and controlled. "Stand up. You're his hope right now."
Emily looked up at him, eyes bloodshot. "Is he going to die?"
Louis didn't answer immediately.
Because through the crack in the OR doors, people kept rushing out—
"Type B blood—we're running low!"
"Blood bank can't send more fast enough!"
"Bleeding point isn't holding—possible through-and-through!"
"Prep for secondary thoracic exploration!"
Each update felt like a death sentence.
When she heard "can't stop the bleeding," the air left her lungs.
She bit down hard on her lip, tasting copper, forcing herself not to fall apart.
She replayed that moment in her mind—when she'd thrown herself forward to take the bullet, and he'd yanked her behind him, using his own body as a shield.
He didn't have to do that.
He could have let her take it.
But he didn't.
He'd rather die himself.
Than let her get hurt.
Emily slid down the wall, hands covering her face, shoulders shaking violently. But she didn't let herself cry aloud—afraid her voice would become some kind of terrible omen.
The red light above the OR door stayed lit.
Time dragged on, each second an eternity.
Inside, Charles was fighting for his life, blood still pouring, vitals plummeting and recovering in desperate cycles.
And Kismet had gotten away clean.
The corridor outside the operating room felt bleached, the fluorescent lights piercing. Emily leaned against the wall, her clothes layered with dried and fresh blood—a nightmare she couldn't wake from.
The red light still burned.
Her fingertips were ice-cold, still frozen in the position they'd held when pressing against his wound. As if letting go meant Charles would slip out of this world entirely.
Footsteps approached—heavy, deliberate, oppressive.
Emily looked up.
Ollie.
The old man wore a dark overcoat, leaning on a cane. His face was ashen, his gaze sweeping over the blood on Emily's clothes without a flicker of sympathy—only mounting fury.
Nathan stood, moving to intercept. "Mr. Ollie Windsor—"
Ollie raised a hand. His cane struck the floor once—a sharp, final sound. "Step aside."
The hallway fell silent.
Ollie stopped in front of Emily, towering over her. When he spoke, his words were a verdict.
"Emily. Do you still not understand what's happening here?"
Emily's throat constricted. She couldn't speak.
Ollie's anger seemed to have been building for years, and now it had found its release. "Why is Charles lying in there? Because of you."
"He's lived on the edge his entire life—clearheaded, ruthless, uncompromising. But the moment you appeared, he had a weakness. He had something to lose. He had a vulnerability."
He stepped closer, each word a blade. "If it weren't for you, he wouldn't have been cornered tonight. If it weren't for you, he wouldn't have had to take that bullet."
Emily's fingers slowly curled, nails digging into her palms. She felt nothing.
Ollie continued, voice icy. "And the most absurd part? You're a Campbell."
"You brought this disaster to the Windsors. You dragged him into the mud."
He raised his cane, pointing toward the operating room. "That's Charles in there. The future of the Windsor family. The leader who was supposed to restore us."
"What right do you have to stand here?"
Emily's eyes stung, but she forced the tears back. "I didn't want to hurt him."
Ollie gave a cold laugh. "What you wanted doesn't matter. Results matter."
He turned to Atticus. "Escort her out. From now on, she doesn't set foot in this hospital without my permission."
"Ollie!" Louis finally snapped, his tone razor-sharp. "By what authority—"
Ollie didn't even look at him. "By the authority of the Windsor family. As Charles's great-uncle. Is that enough?"
Louis's chest rose and fell once. He said nothing more.
He could stop this once. But not forever.
This was a Windsor family matter.
Two bodyguards stepped forward.
But Emily stood first, swaying on her feet, as though her bones had dissolved.
She stared at the red light above the OR, and suddenly every word Ollie had said felt like a knife twisting deeper.
She had made him vulnerable.
She had made him afraid.
If she hadn't been there, would he have been shot?
If she left, would he be safer?
Her voice was barely audible. "I'll go."
Ollie watched her coldly, as if waiting for an inevitable conclusion.
Emily didn't argue.
She turned and walked away, her steps hollow and numb.
Outside, the wind was brutal.
In the distance, the city hummed with noise, but it felt muffled—like it was happening behind thick glass, completely separate from her.
Emily didn't go back to the hotel. She sat down on a bench just outside the hospital entrance, back pressed against the freezing wall.
She couldn't leave.
She was terrified that when the red light went out, no one would tell her.
She tucked her fingers into her sleeves and noticed her palms were still stained with blood—impossible to wash away.
Over and over, she asked herself: Was Ollie right?
Should she leave?
A woman like her—bearing the Campbell name, carrying Gerald's vendetta—standing beside Charles only dragged him deeper into danger.
The wind picked up.
She shivered, but didn't move.
As if staying here, freezing in the cold, was some kind of penance.