hapter 4
I stood outside the emergency room, watching Byron rush in. His sharp suit seemed so out of place in this sterile, chaotic environment.
The attending physician approached. “The patient is currently in a deep coma, a vegetative state. The chance of waking up is less than three percent.”
I saw his hands trembling, a flash of panic in his eyes. He reached out to touch my face but stopped midway, as though he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
“I’m sorry, I… His voice broke.
My father burst into the room, and the moment he saw me, he collapsed to the
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ground. Clutching his chest, he gasped, “No, Dina will be fine…”
And then, in the next moment, he fell too.
“Call for help! The president’s having a attack!”
Cart
I watched as they rushed my father into the adjacent ICU. Byron stood in the hallway, looking as though his soul had abandoned his body.
“Mr. Roffe, Ms. Cohen’s phone…” A nurse handed it to him.
He took the phone, unlocking it with a fingerprint. The video automatically played.
“Darling, look, this little dot is our baby. The doctor says we’re six weeks along…” My voice, still light with joy, echoed from the
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phone.
His hands shook even harder.
The unsent messages stabbed at his eyes one by one:
“Honey, I think the baby moved today…” “How should I face you…” “Turns out you never really loved me…”
I watched as his eyes reddened.
The evidence folder opened: the acquisition plan, supplier contracts, doctor resignation records… he flipped through the pages, his fingers growing colder.
Then, he stopped on a photograph: from three months ago, at our wedding. It was the moment I secretly pinned the boutonnière on him. He looked down at me, smiling so
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gently.
Below the photo, my note read: “You looked so handsome today, my dear. I wish I could look at you like this forever.”
He buried his head deep in his hands.
“Mr. Roffe, something’s wrong!” The secretary burst in, her voice panicked. “There are rumors online saying you drove the president’s daughter to her death. The stock price has plummeted by 70%…
He paid her no mind, his eyes glued to the screen of my phone, scrolling through the content over and over.
Our wedding video.
Photos of us having breakfast together.
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The clumsy porridge I made for him when he had a cold.
The way he loved it when I helped him with his tie.
“She does this… every day…” He mumbled to himself. “Does she really put this much effort into it… every day?”
Suddenly, the sharp, blaring sound of the ICU alarm pierced the air.
“The president’s blood pressure is
dropping!” “Heart rate stopped!” “Prepare for defibrillation!”
I stood between the two rooms. On one side was my unconscious body, and on the other, my father struggling at death’s door.
And Byron–this man who had once
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towered over me–finally showed a crack of vulnerability.
He slumped into the chair, still holding the wedding photo in his hands.
“I’m sorry…” His voice was barely a whisper. “I think… I really fell in love with you.”
“But it’s too late, isn’t it?” I stood by his side, watching the tears glisten in his eyes.
How ironic.
I had once been nothing more than a pawn in his plan.
But somewhere along the way, I had unknowingly moved into his heart.
I watched him, red–eyed, sitting by my hospital bed, apologizing over and over.
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So, you could feel pain too.
But it didn’t matter anymore. It was too late.
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