chapter 167
Scarlett's POV:
The door slammed shut behind them with a finality that reverberated through my bones.
I remained frozen in the sterile hospital bed, staring in shock at John writhing on the floor where Sebastian's fist had sent him sprawling, his groans of pain filling the room like accusatory evidence of our failure.
"Get me a towel," John growled through the blood streaming down his face, his usual composure shattered along with his nose. Mia scrambled to comply while Ethan stood paralyzed by the window, his young face pale with shock.
I should have been attending to him, playing the devoted wife, but I couldn't move.
Couldn't think past the echo of Elena's words: "Even if I weren't pregnant, even if the medical conditions allowed it, even if we were a perfect match... I still wouldn't donate my bone marrow to you."
My own daughter. My flesh and blood. She'd looked at me with those cold blue eyes and condemned me to death without a flicker of remorse.
"Mom?" Mia's tentative voice broke through my spiral. "Are you okay? Should I call the nurse?"
I forced myself to focus on her concerned face. Sweet, loyal Mia, who'd never questioned my love, never doubted her place in our family. Unlike the ungrateful child who'd just walked out that door, wrapped in wealth and protection I could never have provided.
"I'm fine, darling," I managed, though my voice came out hoarse. "Just... shocked by your father's injury."
John accepted the towel from Mia with a grunt, pressing it against his nose.
"Should we call the police?" Ethan finally spoke, his voice cracking. "He assaulted Dad. We all saw it."
John barked out a harsh laugh that sent droplets of blood onto his shirt. "Call the police on Sebastian Vane? Might as well sign our own death warrants." He pulled the towel away to examine the bleeding, wincing at what he saw. "No, the authorities won't help us here. That man owns half the city's infrastructure."
John turned his gaze to me, dabbing at his nose with increasing frustration. "Your little spat with Elena—if you had just played it differently, shown some vulnerability, perhaps even shed a few tears..."
He shook his head in disgust. "Women are emotional creatures, especially ones starved for maternal affection. She would have softened."
"Elena won't donate," Scarlett interrupted, her voice flat. "And even if she would, no reputable doctor would perform the surgery."
John's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Elena is still the fastest source. The most compatible match we'll find."
He stood abruptly, tossing the bloodied towel aside. "If she had just agreed, I have... connections. Ways to make these procedures happen, paperwork be damned."
"John—"
"But since she insists on being so ungrateful," he continued, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "Get the van ready. We're taking her tonight."
My eyes widened for a fraction of a second. My lips parted as if to speak, but I finally remained silent, her hands folding tightly in her lap.
John moved behind my bed, his fingers threading through my hair with disturbing tenderness. "You're losing more of it," he murmured, lifting a strand.
A few loose hairs drifted to the floor. "Can't have that. When it's gone, you won't..." His voice trailed off, lost in some private obsession. "You won't look like her anymore."
A violent cough seized me then, more brutal than before.
I doubled over, pressing a handkerchief to my mouth. When I pulled it away, the white fabric bloomed with fresh crimson—more blood than I'd seen in weeks. My chest rattled with each labored breath.
Sebastian's words echoed in my mind, unbidden and unwelcome: "He doesn't love you. He loves a ghost."
I watched John, saw how his eyes traced the curve of my jaw, the fall of my hair. The question burned on my tongue: Do you love me at all, or am I just a walking memorial to your first wife?
But I swallowed the words along with the metallic taste of blood. I couldn't afford to shatter his illusions. Not now.
"John," I rasped, gripping his wrist. "You have to save me. I don't want to die."
Something shifted in his expression—a shadow of old grief, quickly replaced by fierce determination. "I won't let you leave me," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "Not again."
Again.
The word hung between us like a confession.
My fingers tightened involuntarily on his wrist as my mind snagged on that single syllable, but I forced myself to let it pass. Some truths were too dangerous to acknowledge.
If his obsession with preserving his dead wife's image was what drove him, then I would use it. My survival depended on it.
---
That evening.
The hospital room door burst open with such force, it slammed against the wall. Marcus strode in, dragging Allen by the collar like a broken puppet.
"Missing something, Smith?" Marcus shoved Allen forward, sending him sprawling at John's feet. "Pathetic. You think you can touch someone who belongs to the Vane family with such amateur tactics?"
John's face contorted with rage. He lunged for the medical tray, fingers closing around a scalpel. "You dare—"
Before he could complete the swing, another of Marcus's men materialized from the doorway, catching John's wrist and twisting until the blade clattered to the floor. The man pressed John against the wall, forearm across his throat.
"The Smith family seems to have forgotten its place," Marcus said conversationally. "Should we remind them what happened to the last family who tried to touch something belonging to Mr. Vane?"
"Vanished without a trace," his companion supplied with a cold smile. "As if they'd been erased from history itself."
Marcus stepped forward, adjusting his cuffs with deliberate calm.
"Mr. Vane has a message for you. You have two options: leave St. Valen by sunrise, or watch everything with the Smith name burn to ash. Your businesses, your accounts, your allies—gone."
"Dad, please," Mia whispered from the corner where she'd pressed herself, face pale with terror. "Let's just go."
Marcus swept his gaze around the room. "I suggest you make your decision quickly and get out. The clock is ticking, and Mr. Vane's patience has already run out."
With that, he turned on his heel and strode out, his men following in precise formation. Allen remained crumpled on the floor, groaning softly.
The door swung shut behind them with a quiet click that somehow sounded more final than any slam.