Chapter 190 The Truth Slowly Emerges
The thunderous crash of Amara's fall hit Isabella's eardrums like a sledgehammer.
She froze by the window, all strength instantly drained from her body. The next second, she let out a beast-like scream. That cry of "Amara" was so broken it was unrecognizable, her throat churning with a metallic sweetness. She stumbled out of the hospital room, barefoot on the cold corridor tiles, each step bruising her knees, but she felt nothing.
The crimson red downstairs stung her eyes. Amara lay there, her white dress soaked in blood, like a crushed snow lotus, her limbs twisted at unnatural angles, never to open her eyes again.
"Amara..."
Isabella rushed down the stairs, her dress hem wet with blood and sticking to her legs. Her foot slipped and she fell hard to the ground. She got up, lunged forward, and with trembling hands embraced Amara's ice-cold body.
That body had already lost its warmth. Blood still gushed from the wounds, staining her hands red, and staining her already shattered heart red.
"Doctor! Doctor!"
She held Amara, crawling with all her strength toward the emergency room, her shoulder hitting the steps, her forehead bleeding, but she just mechanically repeated.
"Save her, please save her, Amara can't die, she's my only friend..."
A passing nurse screamed, and doctors and security guards immediately rushed over. Isabella clutched Amara tightly, like holding onto her last lifeline, refusing to let go no matter how hard the doctors pulled.
"Let go! Let go now!" she screamed, her eyes unfocused but fixed on Amara's face. "She's still alive, she's just sleeping, you need to save her... Amara, wake up, don't sleep, I'm begging you..."
The doctor pried her hands open and lifted Amara onto a stretcher. Isabella followed like a madwoman, stumbling all the way, muttering non-stop, "Faster, go faster... Amara is so afraid of pain..."
She was stopped outside the emergency room. Through the thick glass, she watched the doctors' busy figures, watched the heart monitor gradually flatten into a straight line.
She pressed against the glass, her forehead against the cold surface, tears silently falling. Suddenly, she laughed—a laugh both miserable and desperate.
"Doctor, she can't be saved, can she? Did I arrive too late?"
She raised her hand, repeatedly pounding on the glass. "I'll kowtow to you, I'm begging you, save her. She hasn't eaten the desserts I made yet, we still have so many promises to keep. Please save her, I'll do anything..."
The doctor looked at her, his eyes full of sympathy. A nurse quietly tugged at the attending physician's sleeve and whispered, "Her condition isn't right. She's extremely agitated, pupils dilated, consciousness disoriented."
The attending physician sighed and said to Isabella through the glass, "Ma'am, please calm down. We've done everything we could."
"Everything you could?" Isabella suddenly looked up, her eyes frighteningly hollow. "You clearly caught her, you could have saved her!"
She suddenly went quiet, slowly crouched down, hugged her knees, buried her face in her arms, her shoulders shaking violently.
The emergency room light went out.
The doctor came out, removed his mask, and shook his head regretfully.
Isabella didn't cry. She just slowly raised her head, staring straight at the doctor, saying word by word, "She's dead."
The doctor was about to comfort her when Isabella suddenly stood up, staggered toward him, grabbed his white coat with surprising force. "Doctor, am I dying too? The baby in my belly is gone, Amara is gone too. Should I go join them?"
Her hands were ice-cold, her eyes lifeless, like a soulless puppet.
The doctor immediately sensed something wrong. He held her wrist, his fingertips feeling her pulse—fast and erratic. He immediately told the nearby nurse:
"Do a psychiatric evaluation now! She has acute stress disorder with severe depression and agitation. She must be sent to the psychiatric intensive care unit immediately!"
Just then, a dark figure rushed over.
William.
He had just finished handling company matters and rushed over as soon as he got the news. What he saw was this scene—Isabella crouched at the emergency room door, covered in blood, eyes hollow, like a broken sculpture, with the doctor supporting her, his face grave.
His heart clenched sharply, his steps faltering.
This wasn't the Isabella he knew.
That Isabella who, even when tortured by him until covered in wounds, would silently endure—she was gone.
"Isabella!"
He instinctively called her name, his voice hoarse.
Isabella slowly turned her head to look at him.
In those eyes, there was no hate, no resentment, no love, no anger—only deathly silence.
She even gave him an extremely faint, extremely tragic smile.
That smile was more heartbreaking than tears.
William's throat felt blocked, breathing instantly difficult. He walked toward her step by step, wanting to touch her but afraid of breaking her.
"They said Amara is dead. How ridiculous. They're doctors, how can they lie? Amara is right here!"
"You're so capable, make the doctors save her, save her!"
Isabella's chest heaved violently. The heavy blow made her unable to hold on any longer. Her vision darkened and she collapsed.
William caught her quickly, pain surging in his heart at that moment.
It seemed he was really about to lose her—lose this woman he thought he should hate and had constantly tormented.
But why, at this moment of realizing he was losing her, was he so panicked?
He didn't understand. He just picked up Isabella, then turned to Dylan behind him and said in a deep voice, "Release Donny and send him to the best hospital."
Dylan was stunned for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, Mr. Spencer."
William continued, "Investigate everything immediately. Find out about that child's identity, who saved me in the snowstorm four years ago, Donny and Isabella's relationship, and the truth about that collapse. Don't miss anything!"
"Yes."
Dylan immediately went to arrange it.
William looked at the weak person in his arms, his eyes full of regret and pain. He took a deep breath and carried Isabella back to the hospital room.
It seemed he was wrong.
He thought he had hated Isabella for so long, thought she was the murderer who killed Beatrice, thought she was promiscuous, thought all her pain was an act.
But now, he realized he was the most ridiculous one.
A few hours later, Alvin stood before William with the investigation report, his face pale.
"Mr. Spencer, we've found everything."
"Speak." William's voice was hoarse.
"The child in Ms. Tudor's belly was indeed yours. There was no relationship between her and Mr. Dickson."
William's body shook violently, his fingertips turning white from gripping.
"Also, Donny wasn't having an affair with Ms. Tudor. He was genuinely helping her treat her depression."
"And the person who saved you back then was Ms. Tudor."
This sentence was like a thunderbolt, leaving William's mind completely blank.
He staggered back a step, supporting himself against the wall to barely stand steady.
The person who saved him was Isabella?
He had always thought it was Beatrice.
He loved Beatrice, loved her gentle kindness and that she saved his life, devoted himself to her completely.
But the truth was, on that snowy night, it was Isabella who saved him despite the danger.
He had given Beatrice countless gifts, showered her with endless affection, but to his true savior, he had inflicted endless torture and trampled on her at will.
He made her suffer so much, made her lose her child, made her lose her only friend, made her mentally collapse completely.
What had he done?