chapter 163
Sebastian's POV:
"Are you really going to let your mother die because of your selfishness?"
The words hung in the sterile hospital air like poison.
John's face was twisted with righteous indignation, his bruised jaw giving him a grotesque appearance as he loomed over Elena.
My hand twitched at my side, muscle memory from years of violence threatening to resurface.
"Selfishness?" My voice cut through the tension before Elena could respond.
I stepped forward, placing myself partially between them, my fingers finding John's shoulder in what might have appeared a casual gesture to onlookers. The pressure I applied was anything but casual. "I suggest you watch your tone when speaking to my wife."
John's face contorted with pain as my grip tightened incrementally. "Your wife needs to understand—"
"What she needs," I interrupted, my voice dropping to that dangerous register that made board members cower, "is for you to show her the respect she deserves. Or have you forgotten yesterday's lesson so quickly?"
The color drained from his face as he jerked away from my touch, stumbling back a step. Scarlett made a distressed sound from the bed, her carefully maintained composure cracking.
"Please," she whispered, reaching out toward Elena with trembling fingers. "I know how this must look. I know what you must think of me, of us. But I'm desperate, Elena. The doctors say—"
"Mrs. Smith." A new voice interrupted from the doorway. A doctor in pristine whites entered, his expression professionally neutral as he took in the scene. "I wasn't aware you had visitors during rest hours."
"My daughter," Scarlett said quickly, gesturing toward Elena. "She's here about the bone marrow testing."
The doctor's gaze shifted to Elena, and I saw the exact moment his eyes dropped to her rounded belly beneath her coat. His expression tightened almost imperceptibly.
"I see." He moved further into the room, positioning himself with practiced ease to defuse the mounting tension. "Mrs...?"
"Vane," I supplied, my arm sliding possessively around Elena's waist. "Mrs. Elena Vane."
"Mrs. Vane." The doctor nodded acknowledgment. "I'm Dr. Wilson, Mrs. Smith's doctor. While we certainly appreciate family members considering donation, I must inform you that pregnancy is an absolute contraindication for bone marrow harvesting. The procedure would pose significant risks to both mother and fetus."
John's face flushed an alarming shade of red.
"But surely there must be something—" he began.
"I'm afraid not," Dr. Wilson cut him off firmly. "Medical ethics aside, no reputable physician would even consider such a procedure on a pregnant woman. We'll need to explore other donor options through the registry."
"Of course," Scarlett said quickly, though I caught the flash of something—disappointment? calculation?—in her eyes before she schooled her features. "I understand completely. John's just... we're both so worried. He's not thinking clearly."
The false sweetness in her tone set my teeth on edge. This woman, who had abandoned Elena without a backward glance, now played the understanding mother, the noble sufferer.
"Perhaps," I said, my voice cutting through whatever platitudes Scarlett was preparing, "we should discuss alternatives. I have considerable resources at my disposal. "
John's eyes lit up with desperate hope, but I wasn't finished.
"Of course," I continued, letting my gaze drift between them with calculated coldness, "such generosity would require certain... acknowledgments."
"Acknowledgments?" Scarlett's voice was cautious.
I smiled, the expression sharp enough to cut glass. "The truth, Mrs. Smith. About the Lumière competition. About why your daughter"—I pulled Elena imperceptibly closer—"Elena placed second despite having the superior entry."
The silence that followed was deafening. Dr. Wilson, sensing the shift in atmosphere, excused himself with muttered words about checking other patients. Smart man.
"I don't know what you're talking about," John blustered, but the guilt was written across his face in neon letters.
"No?" I tilted my head, studying him with the same detached interest I reserved for hostile takeover targets. "So you're telling me it's pure coincidence that your another daughter, Mia, won first place? That several judges just happened to have business connections to your family's interests?"
"Don't you dare make such baseless accusations," Scarlett snapped, her earlier fragility replaced by sharp defensiveness. "We would never bribe judges. That's a serious allegation, Mr. Vane."
I noticed how John's eyes darted away, unable to meet my gaze.
Scarlett lifted her chin, a flash of the steel that had kept her family afloat all these years showing through. "I merely offered Mia some mentorship. Shared my experience in the industry. There's nothing wrong with helping family."
"Mentorship," Elena repeated, her voice hollow with disbelief.
She'd been silent until now, but I could feel the tremor of emotion running through her. "The Lumière competition is meant to showcase individual talent. Solo work. No collaboration, no assistance." Her voice grew stronger with each word. "You already broke the rules. You already cheated."
A bitter laugh escaped her lips, so soft I might have missed it if she weren't pressed against my side. I could almost feel the thoughts racing through her mind—the cruel irony that the woman who'd abandoned her had stolen from her again, this time to benefit another daughter.
Her expression shifted into something I rarely saw—a smile that held no warmth.
"Well," I said, breaking the suffocating silence, "I believe we have our answer. I'll still arrange for the donor search, Mrs. Smith. Not for you—God knows you deserve nothing from us—but because I won't have anyone claiming my wife let her mother die. "
---
The drive back to The Aurora Penthouse was silent.
Elena stared out at the city lights blurring past, her reflection in the window showing nothing but hollow exhaustion.
The moment we stepped through the door, I watched her transform. She moved through our home like a woman possessed, yanking open drawers, rifling through shelves. I recognized this energy—the desperate need to do something, anything, when the pain became too much to simply hold.
"Elena—" I started, but she'd already found what she was looking for: my desk scissors, sharp and silver in her trembling hands.
The first photo tore with a sound like breaking bones. Scarlett Smith's face split away from Elena's, fluttering to the marble floor. Then she attacked another, and another.
The scissors slipped. A line of crimson appeared on her finger, blood dripping onto the mutilated photographs. She didn't even notice.