Chapter 99 Chapter 99: Unwelcome Visitors

Chapter 99 Chapter 99: Unwelcome Visitors

MARTHA’S POV

The hospital room felt quieter without Garrison in it. I lay propped against the pillows while a nurse named Carla checked the IV line in my arm. She moved with calm efficiency, adjusting the drip rate and noting numbers on her chart. My body still ached in places I tried not to think about too much. Three days of fear had left marks that went deeper than the bruises on my skin.

“You are looking stronger today, Mrs. Donovan,” Carla said with a kind smile. She fluffed the pillow behind my head. “The fluids are doing their job. How is the nausea?”

“Better than yesterday,” I replied. My voice still sounded rough. “The soup stayed down this morning.”

She nodded and made another note. “Good progress. Page me if the pain increases. We can adjust the medication.”

I thanked her and turned my attention to the television mounted on the wall. The sound was low but the images caught my eye immediately. A news anchor appeared on screen with a serious expression. Behind her played footage of Henry being led out of a building in handcuffs. Officers held his arms firmly while he kept his head down.

“Breaking developments in the Vanderbilt family,” the reporter announced. “Henry Vanderbilt, prominent businessman, was arrested in the late hours of Monday night on serious charges. Sources close to the investigation indicate the case involves his son, Garrison Donovan Black, and Garrison’s alleged fiancée, Martha Whitmore. Remember the father and son have had a strained relationship since the suspicious death of Mr. Donovan’s mother thirteen years ago. Tensions escalated further when Henry married Violet Hampton, who was previously married to his own son.”

The footage showed Henry being placed into a police car. His face looked angry and defiant. My stomach twisted at the sight of him. The reporter continued speaking.

“Details remain undisclosed at this time, but multiple sources suggest the arrest connects directly to the recent disappearance of Garrison’s fiancée and the sudden illness of Mr. Donovan. More updates as the story develops.”

I stared at the screen, unable to look away. The images of Henry in custody brought back flashes of his hands on me, his weight pressing down, his cruel laugh. My fingers gripped the bedsheet tightly. Carla noticed and glanced at the television.

“Would you like me to turn that off?” she asked gently.

Before I could answer, the door opened. Garrison walked in carrying a large paper bag that smelled amazing. He took one look at the television and his expression hardened. He crossed the room in quick strides, grabbed the remote from the side table, and switched the screen off.

“You do not need to watch that,” he said firmly. His tone left no room for argument.

I watched him set the bag down. “Why did you turn it off? I was watching that.”

Garrison pulled a chair closer to the bed. “You have been through enough. Seeing his face again will not help you heal. Let the authorities handle him. You focus on getting better.”

Carla finished her notes and gave me a small smile. “I will check back in an hour. Call if you need anything.” She slipped out quietly and closed the door behind her.

Garrison helped me sit up straighter, arranging the pillows carefully behind my back so I could lean forward without straining. His hands moved with gentle precision, like I might break if he pressed too hard. He opened the paper bag and the rich aroma of roasted chicken and herbs filled the room. My mouth watered instantly.

“I went to Antonio’s,” he explained as he unpacked containers. “The hospital food looks like cardboard and tastes worse. I remember trying it last night. Never again.”

I let out a genuine laugh. The sound surprised me after days of tension. “You complained about it for twenty minutes straight. I thought you were going to demand the chef’s head.”

He grinned and spooned some mashed potatoes onto a plate. “Exactly. So I brought the good stuff. Chicken, vegetables, that rice dish you always order, and fresh bread.”

He adjusted the tray table over my lap and sat on the edge of the bed. Instead of handing me the fork, he scooped a small portion of chicken and held it to my mouth. I accepted it, chewing slowly. The flavors exploded on my tongue after days of barely eating. Warmth spread through me that had nothing to do with the food.

“You do not have to feed me,” I said between bites. “My hands work fine now.”

“I want to,” he replied simply. He wiped a bit of sauce from the corner of my mouth with a napkin. “Let me take care of you for a while.”

We continued like that for several minutes. He fed me small bites, pausing when I needed water or a break. The care in every movement made my chest feel tight in the best way. No grand declarations passed between us. Just quiet actions that spoke louder than any words could. He made sure each portion had the right balance of flavors. When I slowed down, he did not push, simply set the fork down and waited.

“This is much better than the hospital soup,” I admitted. “Thank you for going out there.”

He nodded and offered another bite of rice. “You need real food to get your strength back. The doctors said another day or two and we can go home. I already have the house prepared. Fresh sheets. Your favorite blankets. No more beige walls and beeping machines.”

I smiled around the food. The thought of going home felt like a distant dream after the warehouse. Garrison kept feeding me patiently until I shook my head at the next bite. He packed the leftovers neatly and set them aside for later.

Just then a soft knock came at the door. Before either of us could respond, it swung open. My uncle, George strode in with his daughter Lily and my aunt right behind him. They wore expressions of exaggerated concern that did not reach their eyes. My uncle carried a cheap bouquet of flowers that already looked wilted.

“Oh my goodness Martha, we heard what happened,” my uncle said loudly as they rushed to the bedside. “We came as soon as we could. How are you feeling, dear niece?”

I stiffened against the pillows. Garrison’s hand found mine under the blanket, a silent show of support. The room that had felt warm moments ago now carried a different kind of tension. My uncle set the flowers on the side table and pulled up a chair without being invited.

“You poor thing,” my aunt added, placing a hand dramatically over her heart. “Kidnapped and held by that awful man. We saw the news. The whole family is worried sick about you.”

Uncle George nodded vigorously. “We tried calling the hospital earlier but they kept saying family only. Good thing we are blood. We brought some things from home. Clothes, snacks, whatever you might need.”

He reached into a bag and pulled out a crumpled sweater I had not worn in years. The gesture felt calculated rather than caring. I remembered all the times they had shown up only when they wanted money, favors, or just to insult me. This visit carried the same energy, dressed up in concern.

Garrison stayed quiet but I felt the tension in his grip. He let me handle it, knowing I needed to face them myself. I took a slow breath and met my uncle’s eyes directly.

“How did you know where to find me?” I asked. “Why are you here?”

Lily leaned closer. “Come on Martha. We are your real family, of course, we should know where to find you.”

The words hung in the air. Real family. As if they had ever acted like one.