Chapter 7

The rhythmic, high-pitched beep of the heart monitor was the only sound in the VIP hospital room.

Cordelia lay on the bed. Thick, white gauze was wrapped heavily around her left wrist. Her face was ashen, her lips completely devoid of color.

Alistair sat in the plastic chair beside the bed. His elbows rested on his knees, his face buried in his hands. He looked exhausted. The manic anger from the phone call had burned out, leaving behind a heavy, suffocating sludge of guilt and manipulation.

Cordelia's eyelashes fluttered. She let out a weak, pained groan.

Alistair's head snapped up.

Cordelia turned her head slowly. When her eyes focused on Alistair, fresh tears immediately welled up and spilled over her cheeks.

"Alistair..." she sobbed, her voice barely a croak. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Did I cause trouble for you?"

She didn't mention the phone call. She didn't mention Eleanor. She played the ultimate victim, turning the blade inward.

Alistair's jaw tightened. He reached out and gently pushed a strand of hair away from her sweaty forehead.

"Don't think about that now," Alistair said, his voice rough. "Just focus on recovering."

Cordelia weakly grabbed his wrist. Her fingers were ice cold.

"I couldn't take it," she cried, her grip tightening with surprising strength. "I came back for you, Alistair. I survived five years of hell just to see your face again. And then I hear... I hear you have a family. A child."

A dark shadow passed over Cordelia's eyes when she said the word child, but she blinked it away instantly.

"Please," Cordelia begged, pulling his hand toward her chest. "Divorce her. Come back to me. I can't live in a world where you belong to someone else."

The heart monitor's beeping accelerated, matching her rising panic.

Alistair stared at her. His chest felt like it was being crushed in a vice. He owed her his life. He felt responsible for her pain.

But the word divorce made his stomach violently reject the idea. The image of Eleanor's calm, mocking smile from last night flashed in his brain. The thought of Eleanor walking out of the Montgomery estate, never coming back, sent a spike of pure, irrational terror through his veins.

He pulled his hand out of Cordelia's grip. The movement was firm and undeniable.

"I won't divorce her," Alistair said. His voice was absolute.

Cordelia's breath hitched. Her eyes widened in genuine shock.

"Cordelia, listen to me," Alistair continued, his tone turning clinical. "I will give you anything you want. I will buy you a house. I will fund your life. I will make sure you never have to worry about money or care ever again. But I cannot give you my marriage."

Cordelia stared at him. The rejection hit her like a physical slap. She had sliced her own skin open, and it still wasn't enough to break his bond with that woman.

A hysterical sob ripped from her throat.

She started thrashing on the bed. She swung her uninjured arm, hitting her own chest, tearing at the hospital gown.

"No! No! Get out! Just let me die!" she screamed.

The heart monitor shrieked a continuous, frantic alarm.

Alistair panicked. He jumped out of the chair. He leaned over the bed and grabbed her flailing arms, trying to pin them down so she wouldn't rip her stitches open.

"Cordelia, stop! Calm down!" Alistair ordered, his voice strained.

She kept fighting him. Left with no other option to restrain her safely, Alistair wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her flush against his chest. He pressed her head into his shoulder, holding her tight until her thrashing subsided into muffled sobs.

It was a clinical hold. A restraint. There was zero passion in his body.

But from the doorway, it looked very different.

Over Alistair's broad shoulder, Cordelia's tear-stained face shifted. The hysterical despair vanished. The corner of her mouth twitched upward into a sharp, victorious smirk.

She flicked her eyes toward the heavy wooden door of the hospital room.

The door was cracked open exactly two inches.

Standing in the hallway, hidden in the shadows, was Beatrice Blackwood.

Beatrice held her smartphone up, the camera lens perfectly aligned with the crack in the door. She tapped the screen.

Click.

The silent shutter captured the image perfectly.

In the photo, Alistair's massive frame completely enveloped Cordelia. His head was buried near her neck. It looked like a desperate, passionate embrace between two tragic lovers.

Beatrice lowered the phone. She looked at the photo, smiled maliciously, and silently pulled the door shut.

Inside the room, Alistair finally felt Cordelia's body go limp. He slowly pulled away, laying her back against the pillows. He was breathing heavily, his suit jacket wrinkled.

"Get some sleep," Alistair said, his voice exhausted.

He turned around and walked out of the room. He didn't notice the smirk on Cordelia's face. He didn't know a weapon had just been forged against his wife.

Alistair stood in the sterile hallway. He pulled his phone from his pocket.

He needed to call Eleanor. He needed to tell her he wasn't coming home tonight. He had to stay here to make sure Cordelia didn't try to kill herself again.

He thought he was doing the responsible thing. He had no idea he was about to drive the final nail into the coffin of his marriage.