Back from the Dead The Billionaire's Wife He Should Never Have Betrayed

The acrid bite of disinfectant clawed its way into her nostrils. Jocelyn was about to open her eyes when she heard Ivor's voice, laced with concern.

"Doctor, how is she doing? She's not in any danger, is she?"

Before the doctor could answer, Ivor pressed on. "Skip the medical jargon. Just tell me—is the baby all right?"

Jocelyn's heart plunged into ice. She forced her head up.

"Get out. Get the hell out!"

Ivor turned to her, wearing that familiar mask of tenderness. "You're awake? How are you feeling? Does anything hurt?"

He reached out to touch her forehead, but she jerked her head away.

His hand froze in midair. Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.

"Jocelyn..."

"I said get out."

He withdrew his hand and sat on the edge of the bed, a thin veneer of pity settling over his features.

"Since you already know everything, let's stop pretending. Let's lay our cards on the table."

"You cut ties with the Henson family years ago. Without me, who's going to protect you?"

"I'll let yesterday slide. But from now on, you don't touch her."

"As for the baby—consider it my way of making things right with her. But the child will only ever call you Mom. That should satisfy you."

Jocelyn opened her eyes fully. Her voice was flat, almost serene.

"Are you done? Then get out."

Ivor's expression darkened.

"I'd advise you to know your place, Jocelyn. You know exactly how many women would kill to be Mrs. Sanchez. Keep pushing me, and—"

Jocelyn said nothing.

He stared at her ashen face, and whatever threat he'd been building died on his tongue. He left it at "Rest up," then turned and walked out of the room.

The moment he was gone, Jocelyn had someone dig up every last skeleton in Nellie Harding's closet.

She'd entered the red-light district at fifteen. Latched onto the Sanchez family's eldest son at eighteen. The three years in between produced a list of men long enough to fill a page. Several of them were still prominent figures in Harbor City.

Every damning photo, every sordid detail was fed straight to every media outlet in the city.

The articles lasted less than thirty minutes. Every reposted link turned into a 404 error. Every forum thread was scrubbed clean, as though none of it had ever existed.

The hospital room door was kicked open.

Ivor stormed to her bedside, radiating fury. Every trace of tenderness had been stripped away.

"I warned you not to touch her. You just had to push me, didn't you? You really think I won't do anything to you?"

"Since you're so fond of dragging people's pasts into the light, I'll make sure all of Harbor City sees exactly who the real lunatic is. The real vicious, scheming thing."

Before the sun had even set, the bombshell about Jocelyn Henson was all over the city. Fabricated psychiatric records circulated everywhere—official-looking documents declaring she suffered from severe paranoid personality disorder with uncontrollable violent tendencies.

Even the three childless years of her marriage were twisted into a narrative of mental illness ravaging her body. Rumors spread that she had repeatedly tried to harm the baby she carried.

Overnight, the woman every socialite in Harbor City had once envied became a madwoman no one would go near. The Henson family's businesses took collateral damage from the fallout.

Ignoring every objection from the doctors, Ivor seized the opportunity to have her transferred to Stillwater Abbey on the outskirts of the city, under the polished excuse of "rest and recuperation."

Jocelyn tried to escape multiple times. Each attempt was intercepted. Ivor never showed his face; he only sent someone with her medication each day.

The meditation chamber was cold and damp. Jocelyn stared at the occasional flash of headlights on the road below the mountain, trapped in that tiny room with nowhere to go.

Then, on her birthday, rain fell over Stillwater Abbey all through the night.

A sound came from outside the door. Jocelyn opened it, puzzled, and found an unfamiliar monk standing in the rain, holding out a letter.