Chapter 59
James's voice was so cold it barely sounded human.
If she wanted to cash in that so-called lifesaving debt, then he would strip away every last thing she depended on. He would leave her rotting in some foreign slum, clinging to that hollow favor until it decayed right along with her.
Meanwhile, the top private hospital in Novaria had sunk into a strange, suffocating quiet.
The doctors had said the best way to break that kind of psychological dependence on a drug was physical separation.
To help Jasper finally shake off Charlotte's shadow, James had turned away every relative who came asking to visit. He had even shut down all nonessential work at The Sinclair Group and stayed in the hospital room himself.
He had assumed that taking care of a child only required money, the best doctors, and the most professional security. With those in place, nothing could go wrong.
Reality had just slapped the arrogant CEO across the face.
"I don't want this! It doesn't taste like Mom's! I want Mom!"
The sharp crack of shattering porcelain split the air.
James stared at the chicken soup spilling across the floor and at Jasper, curled up in the corner of the bed, shaking with sobs and gagging again and again. A heavy, helpless weight pressed down on his chest.
"Jasper, listen to me. The doctor said your stomach isn't ready yet—"
"Go away! Bad dad! You made Mom leave, and you made Ms. Johnson leave too! I hate you!" Jasper's tiny fists pummeled James's expensive suit, leaving wrinkled dents in fabric that had never dared crease.
James froze where he stood.
It was the first time he had ever been forced to face a six-year-old's meltdown this directly.
In the past, Isabella had always been there.
Back then, he would walk in with that same icy expression, toss out a flat "Stop acting out," and that was it. Isabella would be the tireless fire extinguisher, scooping the child into her arms, whispering to him until everything calmed down.
What had he been thinking then?
He'd believed that as Mrs. Sinclair, taking care of their child was nothing more than her duty. He'd even brushed off her tired complaints about household chores as melodramatic.
Now, with no one else to step in, he had to meet it all head-on: Jasper's seizures when his fever spiked, the bloodcurdling screams in the middle of the night, the question of whether every bite of food was too hot, whether every drop of medicine was measured right.
Only now did he understand that the life he had dismissed as dull and disposable was backbreaking, relentless, and demanded every ounce of a person's strength.
In just three days, the billionaire's eyes were webbed with red. His shirt, once immaculate and crisp, carried stains of formula and the faint bitter smell of medicine.
It was the domestic chaos he had always despised, the mess of real life clinging to everything.
"Mr. Sinclair, you should sit down and rest a bit." Nia, who had worked for the Sinclair family for almost a decade, sighed as she stepped into the room to clean up the broken dishes.
Nia had watched Isabella change from a bright, laughing girl into a quiet, withdrawn homemaker.
James sagged onto the sofa and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Nia, when Jasper threw tantrums before… is this how she got through it?"
Nia's hands stilled for a beat. A weary, helpless sigh slipped into her voice.
"Mr. Sinclair, what Mrs. Sinclair was doing before wasn't 'getting through' anything. She was pouring her life into it. Remember when Jasper broke out in that rash at three? Mrs. Sinclair didn't sleep for five whole nights. You were in the middle of closing that multibillion acquisition back then. She was afraid of interrupting your work, so she stayed alone in the hospital the entire time. By the time you came back, she was so thin she couldn't even keep her wedding ring on."
Pain shot through James's chest.
He remembered that acquisition. It had been The Sinclair Group's milestone entry into the European market. But he had no memory at all of how Isabella had survived that stretch of time.
What he did remember was frowning at her haggard face and saying, "You can't even take care of a kid properly. What are you doing, walking around looking like that?"
Without looking at his suddenly bloodless face, Nia kept going. "When Mrs. Sinclair was still here, Jasper never acted out like this. Because Mrs. Sinclair knew which color socks he needed on which foot to feel safe. She knew he wanted exactly three sugar cubes in his water. Those details? Ms. Johnson doesn't know them, the other nannies don't know them, and you don't either."
She drew in a breath, then added quietly, "Mr. Sinclair, forgive me for speaking out of turn. This house only felt like a home because Mrs. Sinclair was in it. Now that she's gone, this place is as cold as a morgue."
James said nothing.
He turned toward the window. Outside, Novaria's skyline glowed as brightly as ever, but for the first time, the city felt empty and vast in the worst way.
He had always thought he was doing Isabella a favor by making her Mrs. Sinclair. It had never occurred to him that it was Isabella, with every bit of warmth she had, who had been sustaining his pride.
"Dad… I'm thirsty…" Jasper's thin voice drifted from the bed.
James reflexively reached for the water glass, but halfway there, his hand stalled.
He didn't know how many sugar cubes to add.
The wave of failure that crashed over him was worse than losing a ten-billion-dollar deal. It clawed at his lungs, made breathing feel like punishment.
He finally understood that he hadn't just lost a wife. He had lost the only real color his life had ever had.
Two in the morning.
Jasper's condition spiraled again.
His fever spiked to one hundred and four. In his sleep, he cried for his mother over and over, his voice sharp and desperate enough to make the nurses in the hallway wipe at their eyes.
"Doctor, why is his fever still not going down?" James grabbed the hospital director by the collar, his eyes bloodshot.
"Mr. Sinclair, this is a classic psychogenic fever," the doctor said, sweat beading on his forehead. "The child subconsciously feels abandoned. He's using illness as a way to call back the person he trusts most. If we can't stabilize his emotions, this could turn into pneumonia. Then we really will have a problem."
James let go. For a second, it felt like someone had ripped his spine right out of him.
He knew exactly who Jasper wanted.
He wanted Isabella.
And Isabella… Isabella was done with him.
"Nia." James's voice came out hoarse and rough.
"Yes, Mr. Sinclair?"
He shut his eyes, trying to hide the humiliating plea in them. "Call her. Don't say I asked. Just tell her Jasper's really sick, and we're begging her to come see him."
He didn't dare call himself.
He couldn't bear to hear the flat click of a call being cut off. Worse still would be hearing her voice layered with disgust.
Nia stared at him for a heartbeat, then shook her head in helpless resignation and pulled out her phone.
In a small studio apartment near Northstar Architecture in Tech Harbor, Isabella sat at her desk in silk pajamas, adjusting the final stress analysis on a geological model on her laptop.
Moonlight washed over her cool, composed profile. The eyes that had once overflowed with love were now clear and distant.
Her phone buzzed.
Seeing Nia's name on the screen, Isabella's fingers tightened around the mouse.
She had wanted to block every single contact from the Sinclair family. But Nia had been the only elder under that roof who had ever shown her even a little kindness.
"Hi, Nia?"
"Mrs. Sinclair," Nia's voice was already breaking, "Mrs. Sinclair, please, you have to save Jasper. He's in critical condition here in Novaria. He keeps calling your name. The doctor said if his fever doesn't come down tonight, something terrible might happen…"
Isabella's heart clenched as if an invisible hand had wrapped around it and squeezed hard.
No matter how deeply she resented James, no matter how much she wanted to sever herself from that past, Jasper was the child she had carried for nine months, the piece of her own flesh and blood.
He had been her only comfort during those dark years under the Sinclair roof.