Dying, I Left His Ruthless Bed

Isabelle POV

His fingers tightened around my arms, digging into the fresh bruises from the IV lines. Kade's face was inches from mine, a mask of beautiful, terrifying fury.

"You think this is a game?" he snarled, his voice vibrating through my chest. "You killed a Cameron heir."

"I tried to tell you," I gasped, the pain from the surgery—performed without a single drop of anesthesia—throbbing in my womb like a second heartbeat. "I called you. Two hours ago. I texted you."

Kade released one of my arms only to rip his phone from his pocket. He tapped the screen violently and shoved it in my face.

"Show me," he commanded.

I blinked, trying to focus through the gray haze clouding my vision. The call log was open.

Today.

10:00 AM – Elder Cameron

09:15 AM – Carla Shaw

08:30 AM – Matteo

Nothing. My name wasn't there. The text thread was empty.

"You deleted it," I whispered, looking up at him. "Or she did."

I shifted my gaze to Carla. She stood just behind him, her expression a perfect portrait of concern, but her eyes—cold, blue chips of ice—glinted with triumph.

"You're lying," Kade said. The verdict was final. In the Mafia, a liar was worse than a thief; a liar was a liability.

"I have my phone," I stammered, reaching for the pocket of my thin hospital gown, desperate to prove I wasn't the monster he painted me to be. "Let me show you—"

"Kade, please," Carla interrupted, her voice soft and trembling. She placed a manicured hand on his bicep. "Don't do this here. She's... she's clearly not herself. The grief makes people say crazy things."

Her touch seemed to burn him, but not in the way it burned me. He didn't pull away. He leaned into it.

"She isn't grieving, Carla," Kade spat, his eyes never leaving mine. "She's gloating."

Suddenly, Carla let out a sharp gasp and doubled over, clutching her stomach. "Oh god. Kade... it hurts."

The transformation in my husband was instantaneous. The demon who wanted to strangle me vanished, replaced by a protector. He turned to her, his hands—the hands that had just bruised me—gentle as they supported her waist.

"Carla? What is it?"

"The stress," she whimpered, leaning her full weight against him. "My stomach... I think I need a doctor."

Kade didn't hesitate. He didn't look back at me. He didn't ask if I, the woman bleeding into a hospital pad, needed help. He scooped Carla up into his arms, holding her against his chest like she was the most precious thing in the world.

"I've got you," he murmured to her.

I watched, frozen, as he carried the daughter of our enemy down the hall. He walked straight toward the double doors at the end of the corridor—the entrance to the OB/GYN wing. The same wing where I had just left my dead child.

He was taking his mistress to the place where I had lost everything.

The elevator dinged behind me, but I couldn't move. I stood alone in the freezing corridor, the silence ringing in my ears louder than any scream.

I don't remember the drive back to the estate. I only remember the cold.

The Cameron mansion was silent, a mausoleum of marble and gold. I barely made it up the grand staircase, my legs trembling with every step. By the time I reached the master suite, my stomach lurched violently.

I stumbled into the bathroom, falling to my knees before the toilet just as the retching started.

It wasn't bile. It was blood. Bright, red, arterial blood.

It splashed against the pristine white porcelain, a gruesome contrast to the luxury surrounding me. The cancer was eating me alive, gnawing through my stomach lining, punishing me for surviving the surgery.

I dry-heaved until there was nothing left, then collapsed onto the Persian rug. The room spun. Darkness clawed at the edges of my vision.

I must have passed out.

I woke to the rough sensation of a tongue on my cheek. Fluffy, my white ragdoll cat, was purring anxiously against my neck. I groaned, trying to push myself up, but my arms felt like water.

"Pathetic."

The voice came from the doorway.

I froze. Slowly, I lifted my head. Kade was standing there, still in his suit, though his tie was now undone. He loomed over me, staring at the blood on my lips and the splatter in the toilet bowl with detached disgust.

He didn't rush to help me. He didn't call for a medic. He just watched, as if I were a bug squashed on his expensive floor.

"Kade..." I rasped, the metallic taste of blood coating my tongue. "Help me."

He crouched down, but he didn't reach out. His steel-gray eyes scanned my face, searching for the lie he was convinced was there.

"Save the performance, Isabelle," he said, his voice devoid of warmth. "Carla told me everything. How you threatened her. How you planned this."

"I'm dying," I whispered, the truth slipping out in a desperate plea.

Kade stood up, towering over me once more. He adjusted his cuffs, his face hardening into stone.

"A traitor's tears are just as cheap as her blood," he said coldly. "Clean yourself up. You look disgusting."

He turned and walked into the bedroom, leaving me lying in the wreckage of my own body.