Chapter 191 William, You Got What You Deserved Today
Outside the VIP hospital room, the corridor was so quiet William could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
He leaned against the cold wall, his eyes locked on the closed door. His eyes were bloodshot, drowning in regret.
He'd been standing guard for two solid days. No food. No water. He hadn't moved except to press closer to the window for a better view of Isabella lying motionless in that bed.
Two days, and she hadn't stirred once. Not even a flutter of her eyelashes. She looked like a porcelain doll with the soul ripped out—so fragile that one touch might shatter her completely.
Dylan's footsteps were barely audible as he approached. He held a manila envelope, his expression grim. "Mr. Spencer, Manuel had this couriered from overseas. He said Ambrose kept it in his safe deposit box. It's about Ms. Tudor."
At the mention of that name, William's brow furrowed. He lifted his hand—his fingers trembling slightly—and took the envelope. The moment his fingertips touched the cold paper, panic gripped his chest.
He opened it. A stack of blood donation slips slid out, light as air but hitting his chest like lead weights.
The top slip was dated three years ago, right after that blizzard. The donor name read "Echo," but the signature—he'd recognize that handwriting anywhere. It was Isabella's.
Why would her handwriting be there?
Unease flooded through him.
He dropped to his knees and rifled through the papers scattered on the floor. He found an investigation report. It stated that Isabella had been donating blood under Echo's name for three years. To hide the truth, she'd made an arrangement with Echo, who confirmed the donations on her behalf.
That explained why the Spencer family could never meet this mysterious donor. Why Echo always refused to see them but somehow appeared whenever William needed blood.
How could this be...
How could it have been Isabella all along?
What else had she done for him in the shadows?
His hands shook as he picked up the slips one by one. Three years ago to four months ago. Isabella's signature on every single one. Each slip marked with the amount donated.
Some had notes scrawled in the margins: "Emergency transfusion needed."
One entry had a red pen notation: "Echo donated despite running a high fever."
The most recent slip was from four months ago. Next to the blood type match, a doctor had written in careful script: [Donated nearly fourteen ounces. Donor has weak constitution. Post-procedure rest required.]
That date was burned into William's bones. It was one of his regular transfusion days. He'd gone to the hospital, received the blood, then taken Juniper to pick out dresses. Juniper had mentioned Isabella, and he'd demanded she show up within twenty minutes.
He'd warned her that if she was late, there would be consequences.
He remembered her arriving drenched in sweat, her face white as a sheet, barely able to stand.
He'd thought she was faking. Accused her of pushing Juniper. Put his hands on her.
He'd blamed Beatrice's death entirely on Isabella. Never listened to her explanations. Never considered that she was the one suffering most.
All these years, whenever his body suddenly weakened, whenever he needed emergency blood, the hospital always said they could reach the donor. He'd never questioned it.
Now he knew the truth. There was no "reaching" anyone. Isabella had been there all along, using her own blood to keep him alive year after year.
She'd always had a weak constitution. Depression had been eating her alive. But she'd clung to some stubborn will and kept donating.
And what had he done?
Poured every ounce of his cruelty onto her. Called her unfaithful. Crushed her dignity. Destroyed her dreams. Beat their child out of her womb with an iron rod.
Why hadn't she told him?
Why had she carried this pain alone?
This was what Donny had meant—that one day, William would drown in regret so deep he'd never surface.
William's eyes burned. His knees hit the floor. Tears fell onto the thin paper slips, spreading in pale, wet stains.
"Well, well. Look who finally gets what's coming to him."
A voice cut through the air like a blade—cold and seething with rage. Donny stood a few feet away in a hospital gown, bruises still mottling his skin. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles had gone white.
He'd just left his own room and stumbled onto this scene. William on his knees. The donation slips in his hands. That look of belated remorse in his eyes.
Donny closed the distance in three strides, grabbed William by the collar, and drove his fist into his face.
Dylan moved to intervene, but William raised a hand to stop him.
"Don't."
Donny hit him again, harder this time. William—always so untouchable, so in control—didn't fight back.
As if the physical pain was the only thing that could touch the agony tearing him apart inside.
"You didn't believe her, did you?" Donny grabbed his collar and shook him, then slammed another punch into his chest. "You said Isabella's depression was an act! You swore the baby wasn't yours! You thought she was pathetic—that all her suffering was just some performance!"
Donny jabbed a finger at the slips in William's hand. "So what now? How does it feel, looking at these?"
He hit him again. William staggered back, his spine hitting the wall. But the impact was nothing compared to the pain ripping through his chest.
Donny scooped up the donation slips from the floor and hurled them at William's face. Paper fluttered through the air, landing on his shoulders, his lap, the ground. Each slip felt like an arrow piercing straight through his heart.
"She gave you her blood for nearly four years to keep you alive, and you humiliated her at every turn! You let your mistress tear her apart! You killed your own child! You drove her to this, and now you're hiding out here crying?"
Donny grabbed him by the collar again and slammed him against the wall. The hatred in his eyes could have torn William to pieces. "What are you crying for, William? You think you've earned the right to cry?"
Had he?
William opened his mouth. His throat filled with the taste of copper. No sound came out.
"You owe Isabella a debt you'll never be able to repay. Not in this lifetime."
Never repay it?
Every wound Isabella had suffered—she'd taken it because she loved him. He would make it right. He had to.
Yes. He'd find a way to make it up to her.
But Donny's next words obliterated that fragile hope.
"You think Isabella married you because she loved you? You think she was devoted to you because she adored you? You're dead wrong."
William's mind buzzed. He stared at Donny in disbelief. "What are you talking about?"
Donny pulled out his phone. It was a video he'd uncovered while investigating Beatrice's fire—rare footage he'd managed to dig up. He shoved it toward William. "Watch it. Listen to what Beatrice said to Isabella before she died."
William's pupils dilated. He didn't reach for the phone. Couldn't bring himself to look.
Donny thrust it closer, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. "Isabella married you to honor her sister's dying wish. She lived her life as Beatrice's replacement. She stopped wanting to live a long time ago. She was only trying to fulfill her sister's dream. And you—you destroyed everything."