Chapter 196 Chapter One-Hundred-One: Be Well Wyatt.

Chapter 196 Chapter One-Hundred-One: Be Well Wyatt.
Chapter One-Hundred-One: Be Well Wyatt.

“Inmate 3975. You have a visitor.”

The guard stood outside the cell, keys clanking as the lock disengaged.

Wyatt stepped out slowly, confusion etched across his face. A visitor? That made no sense. Everyone he’d ever known was either behind bars—or was dead.

The guard said nothing as he led Wyatt down the corridor and into the visitation wing.

The room was cold and sterile. Rows of metal chairs and narrow tables sat behind thick panes of reinforced glass, each station divided by phones bolted to the wall—one for the prisoner, one for the visitor.

Wyatt slowed as they approached his assigned table.

A woman stood on the opposite side of the glass, her back to him.

She wore a wide-brimmed sunhat that hid her face completely. A long designer coat draped over her frame, concealing her figure—but something about her presence made his chest tighten.

Unease crawled up his spine.

He took his seat, his heart rate spiking for reasons he couldn’t name. The guard rapped his knuckles against the glass, signaling that the inmate had arrived.

The woman turned.

Wyatt’s breath left him in a sharp, broken gasp.

The world tilted.

His face drained of color as recognition slammed into him. He shot to his feet, the chair screeching backward and crashing to the floor.

“No—”

“Sit down, inmate 3975!”

The guard rushed forward, voice sharp with authority. Wyatt didn’t hear him. His body had locked up, muscles rigid, his mind screaming the same impossible thought over and over.

Dead. She was supposed to be dead.

A slow smile curved the woman’s lips.

Ileana stepped forward, shedding the coat as she moved. The beige fitted dress beneath it hugged her figure with effortless elegance, paired with diamond-strapped heels and gold-rimmed glasses that caught the overhead light.

Alive. Composed. Untouched. Radiant.

Cold sweat broke across Wyatt’s forehead as the guard grabbed his shoulder and forced him back into the chair.

Ileana picked up the receiver with deliberate calm, her eyes never leaving his.

Wyatt snatched up his own, his hands trembling.

“How.”

The word tore out of him, raw and hoarse.

She arched a brow, feigning mild surprise.

“How what?”

His shock snapped—splintering into rage.

He leaned forward, gripping the receiver so tightly his knuckles whitened, his eyes bloodshot as fury surged through him.

“Don’t play games with me, you fucking bitch!”

he hissed.

“Why aren’t you dead?”

Ileana didn’t flinch.

If anything, her smile deepened.

\-------

The day Ileana woke up.

After verifying that her vitals were stable, Welch ordered a CAT scan. It was only afterward that she learned she’d been in a coma for nearly two weeks. The results came back clean. No complications. No lasting damage.

A full recovery.

By the time she was wheeled back into her VIP room, it looked nothing like the sterile space she’d left behind. Flowers crowded every available surface, their scents blending together. Gift baskets lined the walls. Familiar faces filled the room—family, friends, people who had refused to leave her side.

The moment she crossed the threshold; the room fell silent.

Then Aunt Vy broke.

“Ilie!”

she cried, rushing forward.

“Oh my God—I’m so glad you’re safe. You’re awake! Don’t you ‘ever’ scare me like that again!”

She wrapped Ileana in a fierce hug, tears soaking into her hospital gown. Vy’s shoulders shook as she cried, unrestrained and unapologetic. Ileana froze for a moment, stunned by the intensity of it all. She hadn’t seen Vy cry this hard since Victoria’s wedding.

One by one, everyone followed.

Hugs. Tears. Laughter through sobs. Hands pressing gifts into her arms as if letting go for even a second might make her disappear again. Even the Whittmans had sent a lavish gift basket—elegant, excessive, and unmistakably expensive.

Walter and Edward arrived last.

“Well damn it, Ilie,”

Edward said gruffly as he pulled her into a hug.

“You sure know how to keep life interesting.”

Joelle followed, cupping Ileana’s face gently.

“You gave us one hell of a scare, mama. Don’t you do that again.”

Walter and Kelly were close behind, their relief written plainly across their faces. The room buzzed with joy, overlapping conversations, soft laughter, and quiet disbelief that she was really there—awake, breathing, alive.

Ileana leaned back against her pillows, her chest warm and full as she watched them all. Every person who mattered. Every soul she’d fought to protect—and who had fought just as fiercely for her.

After video chatting with Victoria, David, and the kids, the mood shifted. Walter and Edward exchanged a look before stepping forward.

“There’s been some developments,”

Walter said carefully.

He went first.

“Wyatt’s officially been charged with murder. We haven’t disclosed your condition yet—so for now, he believes you’re included among the deceased.”

Ileana’s brows drew together.

‘So Wyatt thinks I’m dead. Good.’

That would make confronting him all the more satisfying.

“As for the Thornes,”

Walter continued,

“they were arraigned two days ago. Multiple charges.”

Edward picked up smoothly.

“Rachel thought talking meant she’d get a deal. Unfortunately for her, the Mayor of District Six is out for blood.”

Ileana nodded. She understood exactly what that meant. Unlike the others, Rachel was also being tried in District Six for the murder of Lorina Kely—and from what she’d learned about the Kely family, mercy wasn’t on the table.

“Were you able to confirm the cause of death for the Chairman and his wife?” Ileana asked.

“We were,”

Walter said.

“It was Doxoten.”

Silence settled over the room.

After a moment, Walter continued.

“We’ve also raided every warehouse, storage unit, and loft tied to Wyatt under the names Veis, Matthews, and Vega. Bulletins have been sent to the other Kingdoms. There’s no telling how far this goes—or what else he’s done.”

Once the updates were finished, Cornilious had a catered dinner brought in—courtesy of the Duke and Duchess. Along with it came handwritten notes and elegant gifts, offered in gratitude for the lives Ileana had saved.

As people ate and talked, Rebecca grew unusually quiet, her expression thoughtful.

“Ilie…”

she began hesitantly.

“I mean, I’m one thousand percent grateful it didn’t—but…”

Ileana smiled faintly.

“Why didn’t the Doxoten work on me?”

Rebecca nodded, relieved to have the question spoken aloud. The room grew quiet again. The unspoken question everyone had been circling.

Ileana shrugged, cutting into her steak.

“I took the Panxoten.”

For a beat, no one reacted.

Then Jonathan burst out laughing.

“Oh my God—duh!”

He slapped his forehead.

“I can’t believe we didn’t think of that.”

Whitney giggled.

“I was about to say… maybe Ilie’s an alien or something.”

Marcus grinned.

“Honestly? Wouldn’t even surprise me.”

Ileana smiled as she explained.

“I had a bad feeling that night. So I took the vaccine before I got out of my car. I always carry vials with me—Grandad drilled that into me. After Corey proved the vax worked, I added it to my regular kit.”

Whitney smirked, pride shining in her eyes.

“Bet that asshole didn’t plan for that. My girl’s a genius.”

Laughter filled the room again—lighter this time, freer.

And for the first time since she woke up, Ileana let herself believe it was really over.

\------

Back to present.

“Tell me!”

Wyatt screamed.

“Why aren’t you fucking dead? I killed you!”

He sat on the other side of the glass, body rigid, breath coming in ragged bursts. His fists clenched; knuckles white.

SLAM.

“I said tell me!”

His fist crashed down on the metal table, the sound echoing through the room. A few nearby visitors startled, flinching at the noise.

Ileana didn’t move.

To her, his tantrum was almost laughable.

“Hey!”

the guard barked.

“Three-nine-seven-five—one more outburst and the visit’s over!”

Wyatt barely seemed to hear him. His wild gaze snapped back to Ileana.

She smirked, leaning back in her chair.

“You’d better calm down, 3975,”

she said coolly.

“Otherwise, you won’t be able to receive my gift.”

Wyatt froze.

“What… what ‘gift’?”

Without breaking eye contact, Ileana reached into her bag. She withdrew a worn journal and set it on the table with deliberate care. The moment it touched the surface, her expression hardened.

“I want you to know, Wyatt,”

she said evenly,

“that I think you’re the most disgusting person I’ve ever met. You had something most people never get—a second chance. My grandfather gave you that chance when the rest of the world, your father included, saw you as nothing more than an inconvenience.”

Her hands curled into fists as memory surged—Wilbur’s voice, his quiet grief, the love he still carried for the son who betrayed him.

“You did everything you could,”

she continued, her voice sharpening,

“including murder, to destroy the only person who ever loved you. All because you felt inferior.”

Wyatt’s face drained of color.

Was that really the reason?

Ileana exhaled slowly.

“Still,”

she said, softer now,

“even in your dreadful abyss… my grandfather still loved you. So for him, I’m doing this.”

She slid the journal through the slot beneath the glass.

Wyatt hesitated before taking it. His hands trembled as his fingers closed around the worn cover.

“What the hell is—”

“It’s a journal,”

Ileana cut in.

“A journal Wilbur Green made for his only son.”

She paused, then delivered the final blow.

“Wyatt Matthews.”

Wyatt’s eyes widened. Slowly, almost reverently, he opened the book.

The handwriting was unmistakable.

“Got myself a son today. He’s an amazing little bugger! Says he wants to be like me. How about that!”

His breath hitched.

Another entry followed.

“I learned the truth about Wyatt’s father, though I don’t have the heart to tell him. How do you tell a child he was born from a man so consumed by darkness that he abandoned the most precious thing he had?”

The pages blurred as tears filled his eyes.

“I hope Wyatt can forgive me someday. I see so much potential in him. So much GOOD. He just has to believe in himself.”

Page after page—Wilbur’s thoughts, prayers, pride. A father’s love laid bare.

Ileana watched silently as tears slid down Wyatt’s cheeks.

Wilbur had never thought him a monster. Turns out, that was what Wyatt had always believed about himself.

Satisfied, Ileana pushed back her chair and stood.

“Wait!”

Wyatt cried, panic flooding his voice.

“Tell me! Tell me how you survived! How you beat me!”

Ileana paused. She picked up the receiver one last time, her lips curving into a slow smile.

“Because even in death,”

she said softly,

“my mentor was better than you.”

Wyatt recoiled, horror flashing across his face. Those were his words—words he’d once spat at her.

Her smile widened.

“Be well, Wyatt. Goodbye.”

She hung up the receiver.

CLICK.

Wyatt’s manic screams erupted as guards rushed in, restraining him. Ileana didn’t look back as she walked out of the county jail.

Outside, cool air brushed her face.

For a moment, it felt like a hug from her grandfather.

Her expression brightened, her smile growing as she approached Remy, who waited by the car—amusement curling at the corner of his lips.

“Ready?”

he asked.

Ileana nodded.

“Ready. Let’s go home.”