Chapter 78 Hollow
Julian：POV
"You can't do this," she whispered. "You can't keep me prisoner—"
"I'm not." My voice was softer now. "I'm keeping you safe. Because right now, you're not thinking straight. You're in pain and you're looking for someone to blame. And I deserve that blame. But I'm not letting you destroy your life because of it."
"My life is already destroyed—"
"No." I cupped her face again. "No, it's not. It hurts right now. God, I know it hurts. But you'll heal. We'll heal. Together."
"I don't want to heal with you—"
"I don't care." I kissed her forehead. "You can hate me. You can scream at me. You can make my life hell. But you're not leaving."
---
Three days in the hospital felt like three years.
Elena barely spoke.
Barely ate.
Just lay there, staring at the ceiling.
The nurses tried to get her to talk.
The psychiatrist tried.
Even Dr. Martinez tried.
Nothing.
She'd answer questions with one word.
Yes. No. Fine.
But nothing more.
On day four, they did the follow-up ultrasound.
Confirmed everything had passed.
Her ribs were healing.
Concussion symptoms were improving.
"Physically, she's ready to be discharged," Dr. Martinez told me. "But I'm concerned about her mental state. She's showing signs of severe depression."
"I'll take care of her."
"Mr. Sterling, she needs professional help. Therapy. Possibly medication—"
"I'll arrange it."
Dr. Martinez looked skeptical but nodded. "I'm prescribing pain medication for her ribs. Make sure she takes it. And—" She hesitated. "Watch her carefully. Patients who've experienced this kind of trauma... sometimes they hurt themselves."
The words sent ice through my veins.
"I won't let that happen."
---
I brought her home on day five.
She didn't speak in the car.
Didn't protest when I helped her inside, moving slowly because of her ribs.
Just let me guide her to bed.
Stared at the ceiling.
"Do you need anything?" I asked. "Water? Food? Pain medication?"
Nothing.
"Elena?"
She blinked once.
That was it.
I stood there. Watching her.
Waiting for something.
Anger. Tears. Anything.
But she just... lay there.
Like a doll.
Empty.
Hollow.
Gone.
"I'll be in the next room," I said finally. "Mrs. Smith will be here if you need anything. Don't try to move around too much—your ribs need to heal."
She didn't respond.
I left the door open. Went to my study. Sat in the dark. And thought about what she'd said.
I want a divorce.
Every time I look at you, all I see is our dead baby.
I hate you.
No.
I wasn't letting her go. I didn't care how much she hated me.
I didn't care if she never forgave me.
She was my wife.
And I was keeping her.
---
Day six.
She didn't eat.
Didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Just lay in bed. Staring at nothing.
I tried talking to her.
Tried getting her to drink water.
She wouldn't.
"Elena, please." I sat on the edge of the bed. "You need to eat something. You need to take your pain medication."
Nothing.
"Just a few bites. Please."
She turned her head away, wincing at the movement.
I left the food on the nightstand.
It was still there six hours later.
Untouched.
Mrs. Smith came to me, worried. "Mr. Sterling, she hasn't eaten anything all day. And she refused her medication. If this continues—"
"I know." I rubbed my face. "I'll handle it."
---
Day seven was worse.
Mrs.Smith found her trying to get out of bed.
"Mrs. Sterling, please, you shouldn't be moving—"
But Elena pushed past her, one hand clutching her ribs, face white with pain.
I heard the commotion and ran upstairs.
Found her in the hallway.
Crawling.
Crawling toward the nursery.
"Elena?" I rushed to her. "What are you doing? You're going to hurt yourself—"
"Need to—" Her voice was barely a whisper. "Need to see—"
"No." I tried to pick her up. "You need to be in bed—"
"Please." She looked up at me. Tears streaming down her face. "Please. Just let me—"
Fuck.
I helped her up. Slowly. Carefully.
Supported most of her weight as we walked to the nursery.
The room we'd started preparing. Pale yellow walls. White furniture. Empty crib.
She sank to the floor the moment we entered.
Hands on her stomach.
Rocking back and forth.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Mommy tried. Mommy tried so hard—"
Fuck.
"Elena." I knelt beside her, ignoring the pain in my knees. "Come back to bed. You're hurting yourself."
"He's gone." Her voice was broken. "I can still feel him but he's gone—"
"I know." I tried to pull her into my arms.
She pushed me away weakly, gasping at the pain.
"Don't touch me."
"Please—"
"You killed him." She looked at me. Eyes dead. "You said you didn't want him and now he's gone."
"That's not—"
"Get out."
"Elena, you can't stay here on the floor. Your ribs—"
"GET OUT."
I stood.
Looked at Mrs. Smith hovering in the doorway.
"Stay with her," I said quietly. "Don't let her hurt herself."
I left.
Stood outside the nursery.
Listened to her cry.
And couldn't do a fucking thing about it.
---
Day eight.
She ate a few bites of toast.
Drank some water.
Took her pain medication when Mrs. Smith insisted.
Didn't speak.
Just sat by the window in our bedroom. Staring at nothing.
Moving carefully because of her ribs.
I tried to work.
Couldn't focus.
Kept checking on her.
She never moved.
Never looked at me.
Just... existed.
Like a ghost.
This is your fault.
You did this to her.
You—
My phone rang.
Adrian.
"I have the information you requested," he said. "About Mrs. Sterling's attack."
Finally.
"Tell me."
"I've identified all three attackers. The leader is Marcus Boyle. Criminal record—assault, battery. His phone records show five calls this week."
"From who?"
A pause.
"Catherine Vanderbilt."
The world stopped.
"What?"
"I'm sorry, sir. I've verified it multiple times. Catherine hired them."
Catherine.
My own fucking cousin.
Hired someone to beat my pregnant wife.
To kill my—
"Where is she?" My voice came out too calm.
"Her apartment. But sir, I should mention—"
I hung up.
Grabbed my keys.
Looked at Elena.
Still sitting by the window.
Still staring at nothing.
Catherine really fucked up this time.
Dared to touch my wife.
This time I'll make sure she gets a taste of prison.