Chapter 74
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074
THE hospital room smelled faintly of antiseptic and lemon; pale blue walls, a single window with blinds half drawn, a metal tray on a trolley, and the soft beep of monitors somewhere down the corridor. A plastic chair sat opposite the bed, and on it sat Adrian. Overhead lights made everything too clear, too clinical.
Vivian was in the bed, stripped of perfume and make-up, hair matted and mussed from the seizure and the rush to the ER. Her hospital gown rode up where her hand pressed uselessly at her belly; her face was raw and hollow, the bravado scrubbed away. Across from her, Adrian sat very still, the day’s casual ease gone. He stared at her as if he were trying to memorize the woman before him and decide if he recognized her at all.
Silence between them thickened, tight and taut, until it began to breathe out into something ugly.
Vivian could not meet his eyes. When she glanced at him, she forced her gaze away, shame and fear kept her chin down. She had done the unthinkable; the weight of it sat in her like a stone.
Adrian finally broke the silence. He let out a short, bitter laugh and looked down at his hands, ashamed of it before the sound even escaped. He forced a smile that couldn’t reach his eyes and then, as if pulling a knife, asked, “You really tried to kill me p>
Was he asking, or accusing? The question hung in the white light.
She shook her head violently, then summoned enough breath to speak, voice small and unusual.
“I didn’t mean to,” she said. “I… I was scared. You were changing. Everything felt like it was falling apart… I thought if I ended it all, it would end everything at once. I… I just wanted to end it all p>
He scoffed, then laughed.
“They said that… if they don’t take it away immediately, you would be lying dead on the slab in the morgue,” he said, her bulging glassy eyes searching his face for clarity, and then he dropped it.
“You lost the baby,” he scoffed.
Her eyes widened as her left hand went to her tummy, her eyes looking down at it.
“The same baby you used to brag about,” he continued, “now you have lost it. Because of what exactly?” He questioned.
“I… I didn’t know what to do, Adrian. You were slipping off my hands and I didn’t want to lose you. So, I wanted… wanted us to leave this world together,” her voice was as low as a whisper.
“Are you mad?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head again. A tiny breath,
“No p>
“Are you stupid?” His tone was flat now, disbelief folding into something harder.
She only shook her head, courage evaporating.
“Leave which world together?” he pushed. “What did you mean, ‘end everything p>
She could not answer, she only stared. The rawness of her confession made the room spin. He advanced a step, shoving his seat forward, fury flaring; she flinched back against the pillows.
“And you thought poisoning the drink, planning that stupid toast, killing me, killing yourself, killing the child…
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was a brilliant master plan?” His voice broke and rose. He scoffed, ran a hand over his face, paced once, then laughed, a short, humorless bark.
“What if I had drunk it? What if Hazel hadn’t FaceTimed me? What if I had taken that glass and-” He stopped and his breath came ragged. “That is how you would have rendered her fatherless. Because you were jealous p>
Her lips trembled, as though some word was lodged in her throat, but nothing came out. Adrian didn’t give her the space to find it; he leaned forward, voice hard as flint.
“I would have died,” he said, each word measured, “because you were jealous p>
She tried again, the syllables barely audible.
“I… I didn’t mean to. I was hurt p>
Adrian’s eyes hardened.
“Then you could have killed yourself alone,” he snapped, and his voice cut through the small room like ice. Vivian’s eyes widened, hurt and fear mingling there. He continued, merciless.
“The next time you want to die, pick a bridge of your choice, London Bridge, Third Mainland, whatever. Jump. If that is the kind of person you are, or the kind of marriage you forced yourself into, be my guest. Jump off the bridge p>
He spoke slowly, making sure every syllable landed. She cringed back against the hospital pillows as if physical blows had struck her. The words were not pleading; they were punishment.
Adrian scoffed and ran his fingers across his face, a small, bitter laugh escaping him.
“You stayed five months in my house… five months and you already turned it into a crime scene,” he spat.
Vivian had no answer. She stared at him, wordless.
He pressed on, the memory of Amelia like a hard stone in his mouth.
“I lived with Amelia for over a decade. She forgave me countless times. She took care of our child. She was always there for me, and never for once, did she try to kill me p>
Vivian’s face went soft, a habitual pout she had worn in gentler times. Her voice, when she found it, was a small, frantic thing.
“Baby… I’m sorry. Please, just forgive me. Give me one last chance. I promise I will never do it again. I won’t. Honestly p>
Adrian closed his eyes and shook his head, slow and final.
“No. No, no, no.” He reached out, and, to her shock, his hand came to her cheek. The gesture was almost tender; it was carefully controlled, as if to prove he could touch her without breaking.
“You are never going to get another chance.” His voice was quiet now, a verdict in the hush of the room.
“Please,” she begged. The single syllable fell flat and feeble.
For a heartbeat it looked as if he might relent, as if the old intimacy could soften him. He leaned in, head close to hers, and for a rattling instant she thought he would kiss her. Instead he withdrew, the motion clipped, clinical.
“You are lucky I’m not pressing charges,” he said, each word deliberate. He let his fingers fall away from her face. “But hear me, and hear me well.” His tone sharpened again. “The next time I see you, or your shadow anywhere
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near me, I will pull every force I have to make sure you sleep in a cell for a very, very long time p>
Vivian’s body shook. The words landed like cold water. Reality, hard and unforgiving settled over her. He watched that tremor in her, then, without any more theatrics, he added in a voice that made the nurse at the door flinch in the corridor, “And if that doesn’t work p>
He tilted his head, eyes knife-sharp.
“I will pull the trigger myself. No warning shot p>
It was not a threat offered in haste; it was a promise he let sit in the air and marinate. Vivian’s sobbing began in a small, disbelieving breath and soon grew, raw and helpless. She clung to the sheet, to the thin safety of hospital linen, to the faint rise and fall of her own chest.
Adrian stood for a long moment, taking her in, her tears, her ruin, the absolute wreck of what had been a life together, and then, as if he were closing a book he no longer wished to read, he turned away.
He walked out of the hospital room with the same even steps he had always used to carry himself through the world: composed, unflinching, a man who believed the world would bend to his will. Behind him, the door swung shut with a soft click. Vivian’s sobs filled the small, antiseptic space; the machines beeped their steady, indifferent rhythms.
She was left alone with the echo of his last words and the small, stubborn pulse of a life inside her that had nothing to do with his verdicts or promises. The room smelled faintly of lemon and disinfectant; the light through the blinds threw bars over the bed. Outside, a corridor whispered with nurses’ footsteps and the distant wail of an ambulance.
Inside, Vivian pressed shaking hands to her belly and whispered, hoarse and hollow, “I’m sorry,” even though the apology had been said and resaid until it meant nothing at all. The hospital kept its calm, clinical watch. The world beyond the door carried on.
She had survived the night. Now she had to live with what she had done, and with what would come next.
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Cedella
Cedella is a passionate storyteller known for her bold romantic and spicy novels that keep readers hooked from the very first chapter. With a flair for crafting emotionally intense plots and unforgettable characters, she blends love, desire, and drama into every story she writes. Cedella’s storytelling style is immersive and addictive—perfect for fans of heated romances and heart-pounding twists.