Chapter 139

Sheryl's POV

I sat in the doctor's office, watching rain streak down the windows of Boston Medical Center as the doctor reviewed my test results. I'd finally decided to take this step—seeking fertility assistance. Something I never thought I'd need at twenty-five.

"Everything looks normal, Mrs. Hayes," she said, sliding a prescription across his desk. "These supplements should help regulate your cycle. Keep your stress levels down, and give your body time to adjust."

Nodding absently, I thanked her and gathered my things. Fertility supplements. Another reminder of the obligation I carried as Rhett Hayes's wife—providing an heir to the Hayes dynasty.

As I walked through the hospital lobby, a familiar black Rolls-Royce caught my eye. Even among luxury vehicles in Boston's medical district, Rhett's car stood out. Beside it stood a mountain of a man with a military buzz cut—Jack, one of Rhett's security team.

My stomach knotted. Rhett was here? At the hospital?

Yesterday's conversation rushed back to me—Cherisse was ill. He'd mentioned needing to check on her.

I approached the information desk, struggling to keep my voice casual. "Excuse me, where might I find Cherisse Cole's room?"

The receptionist tapped at her keyboard. "VIP wing, room 1302."

So she really was here. And apparently, so was my husband.

I made my way to the thirteenth floor, a private wing reserved for Boston's elite. The elevator opened into hushed luxury—more five-star hotel than hospital. I followed the signs to 1302, stopping short when the door opened and a middle-aged woman in nurse's scrubs emerged.

She startled upon seeing me, recognition flashing across her face. I raised my finger to my lips, and she immediately understood, freezing in place.

Through the half-open door, I could hear Rhett's deep voice on a phone call. The same voice that had whispered promises to me just hours ago.

I peered through the gap. Rhett stood at the window, his broad shoulders outlined against Boston's gray skyline, one hand tucked casually in his pocket as he spoke on his phone. On the hospital bed, Cherisse sat propped against pillows, eating something from a white porcelain bowl.

"This maple oatmeal is delicious, Rhett," Cherisse said softly as he ended his call.

Maple oatmeal. Of course.

My mind flashed back to that morning, when Rhett had made me that exact same breakfast. I'd believed it was something special between us—a quiet, domestic ritual that belonged to our marriage. A rare glimpse of tenderness from Boston's most feared businessman.

Now I wondered—had it always been about her? Was I simply a placeholder for his memories of Cherisse?

Her pink hospital room, her favorite breakfast... How many other pieces of my marriage were actually remnants of their relationship?

Rhett turned toward her, his expression unreadable. "Feeling better today?"

"Much better, thanks to you." Cherisse lowered her eyes, her voice fragile. "I'm sorry to worry you."

The scene made my throat tighten. I closed my eyes briefly, steadying myself. When I opened them, I made sure my expression revealed nothing.

Rhett frowned slightly. "I should get going—"

He was interrupted by my phone ringing loudly in the quiet hallway. I fumbled to silence it, but it was too late. Through the gap in the door, our eyes met for a fraction of a second before I turned and rushed toward the elevator.

"Sheryl!" His voice echoed down the corridor as the elevator doors closed between us.

The phone rang again. I picked up. "Sheryl, I need to ask you something about your mother's assets. Do you have time now?"

I pressed the phone to my ear. "Aiden? Yes, I'll meet you at your office."

Rhett's POV

"When did my wife arrive?" I demanded, turning to Sarah, Cherisse's nurse.

The woman looked terrified. "A... a few minutes ago. She asked me not to announce her."

I cursed under my breath, storming toward the stairs. The elevator display showed it had reached the lobby. Too late to catch her there.

I knew exactly where she was headed. Aiden Coleman's law office. I'd heard her answering his phone. Why did this man keep finding ways back into her life?

My blood boiled thinking about it—her running straight to him after seeing me with Cherisse. The optics couldn't be worse, but she didn't understand. She never gave me the chance to explain.

I called Anthony, instructing him to have the car ready. Rain hammered the windows as I descended the stairs, my mind racing through what Sheryl must be thinking. The hurt in her eyes had been unmistakable, even in that brief moment our gazes met.

Twenty minutes later, I entered the marble lobby of Coleman & Associates, ignoring the receptionist's greeting as I strode toward Aiden's office.

Through the glass walls, I could see them—Sheryl's back to me, her posture tense as Aiden leaned forward, speaking earnestly.

"—need to confirm details about your mother's estate," I heard him say as I pushed the door open.

"Sheryl." My voice was deadly calm.

Aiden looked up, his professional smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Mr. Hayes, what a surprise."

I ignored him, focusing solely on my wife. "Sheryl, I've been calling you."

She didn't turn around, her back still to me as she continued her conversation with Aiden. "Perhaps we should reschedule this, Aiden."

The casual use of his first name, the deliberate disregard of my presence—she knew exactly how to push my buttons.

"Sheryl," I repeated, stepping closer. "Why are you avoiding me, and why did you specifically come here to meet him?"

"Rhett," Aiden began, "there seems to be a misunderstanding—"

"I'm talking to my wife," I cut him off coldly. "This doesn't concern you."

Finally, Sheryl turned to face me, her eyes ablaze. "Are we really doing this here? You're going to lecture me about appropriate meetings when I just found you with Cherisse?"

"I can explain about Cherisse," I said, lowering my voice.

"No!" Sheryl's outburst stunned both Aiden and me. She rarely lost her composure in public. "I'm tired of explanations about Cherisse! You have endless excuses while completely disregarding my feelings."

She stepped back, putting distance between us. "You placate me with promises while continuing to do exactly what upsets me."

I realized then how deeply I'd wounded her, how the foundation of trust I'd been rebuilding was crumbling again.

"Sheryl, please—"

"Don't." She turned to Aiden, visibly composing herself. "I'm sorry, Aiden. I'll call you."

She walked past me toward the door, pausing only to deliver her parting shot: "Don't follow me, or I swear I'll make Cherisse regret ever coming back to Boston."

As she disappeared down the hall, Aiden cleared his throat. "Hayes, a word?"

I turned to him, barely containing my rage. Whatever he had to say, it better be worth delaying my pursuit of Sheryl.