The Unwanted Wife's Ultimate Escape Plan

The door to the VIP suite opened with a soft click. Julian stood in the doorway, his usual confident stride replaced by a strange hesitation. His eyes found Chloe on the bed, and for a second, his mask of indifference slipped.

Chloe turned her head. She looked at him, through him, her expression as blank as the white walls of the room. There was no anger, no sadness. Nothing. It was the look you give a stranger on the street.

That emptiness in her eyes was like a physical blow. Julian's hand, hidden in his pocket, clenched into a tight fist. He walked to the side of her bed, the silence stretching between them, thick and heavy. He opened his mouth to say something-he didn't know what-when a specific, discreet buzz vibrated from his other pocket. His private phone.

He froze. He pulled it out. The screen displayed a notification: Customs clearance required for package from E. T.

Eris.

Almost without thinking, he turned his back on Chloe and walked to the window overlooking the city. He pressed the phone to his ear, his voice low and clipped as he instructed his assistant to handle the package immediately, to bypass any delays.

On the bed, a bitter, broken smile touched Chloe's lips. Of course. Even here, even now, she was less important than a package from another woman.

She wouldn't let him see how much it hurt. She pushed the thin hospital blanket aside, her movements stiff and clumsy, and tried to swing her legs over the side of the bed. She just wanted a glass of water. A simple, solitary act.

Her feet touched the cold floor. She stood, but her legs were weak, trembling from the blood loss and the anesthesia. She took one unsteady step, then another. Her foot caught on the tangled cord of a monitoring machine.

Her balance was gone. She pitched forward, a small, startled cry escaping her lips as she fell toward the hard marble floor.

The sound of her body hitting the ground was sickeningly loud. It cut through Julian's phone call. He spun around, his eyes wide with a raw, unfiltered shock. He saw her crumpled on the floor, a mess of pale limbs and white hospital gown.

"Chloe!"

He dropped the phone. It clattered on the floor as he lunged toward her, his heart hammering against his ribs. He reached down, his hands outstretched to pull her up, to fix this.

But before his fingers could touch her, the door flew open.

Moira stood there, a tray of medication in her hands. She took in the scene in a single, horrified glance: Chloe on the floor, Julian looming over her.

"Get away from her!" Moira screamed, her voice raw with fury.

She dropped the tray, pills scattering across the floor. She launched herself at Julian, shoving him hard in the chest. He was caught off guard, stumbling back two steps, his face a mask of disbelief.

Moira knelt beside Chloe, her hands gentle as she helped her sit up, leaning her against the bed. Then she turned on Julian, her eyes blazing. "You bastard. You absolute soulless bastard. Isn't it enough? You had to do this, too?"

Julian's face hardened, the shock replaced by his usual cold arrogance. "Watch your tone, Doctor. You forget who signs your department's funding checks."

Moira laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "And you forget you're in a hospital, not a boardroom. She just lost your child, she collapsed right in front of you, and you can't even be bothered to help her get a single glass of water because you're too busy taking your damn phone calls? ! You couldn't even reach out a hand to catch her!"

The words hung in the air, sharp and poisonous. Chloe flinched as if she'd been struck. She gripped the thin hospital sheet, her knuckles turning white.

Julian's jaw tightened. "That was a sensitive business matter." The excuse sounded weak even to his own ears, especially as he looked at Chloe's face, which was now completely devoid of any emotion.

"Get out," Chloe said. Her voice was a dry, raspy whisper, but it carried the weight of a final judgment.

The command, coming from her, was so unexpected it momentarily stunned him. His pride, the core of his identity, flared. "This is a Kensington-owned hospital," he sneered. "I go where I please."

"Not in my patient's room," Moira shot back. She stabbed the red call button on the wall. "Security."

Within seconds, two large security guards appeared at the door. They looked from Moira's furious face to Julian's thunderous one, their expressions uneasy. The standoff was thick with tension.

Julian felt a flush of humiliation so intense it was dizzying. To be thrown out. By her. He smoothed down his suit jacket, a pointless gesture of composure. He gave Chloe one last, cold look.

He walked to the door, then paused without turning around. "This display is incredibly disappointing," he said, his voice dripping with condescension.

Then he was gone.

The moment the door clicked shut, the fragile control Chloe had maintained shattered. She covered her face with her hands, and a choked, guttural sob was torn from her throat. It was the sound of something breaking deep inside, something that could never be repaired.

Moira rushed to her, wrapping her in a fierce hug, murmuring words of comfort that couldn't possibly reach the depths of Chloe's pain.

Downstairs, in the sterile, white lobby of the hospital, Julian stopped. The polite nods of the staff, the quiet hum of the building he owned-it all faded into a dull roar in his ears. He turned and slammed his fist into a concrete support pillar.

Pain, sharp and white-hot, shot up his arm. He looked down at his hand. Blood was seeping from his split knuckles, dripping onto the polished floor. But the image burned into his mind wasn't the blood. It was the sight of Chloe, falling. And the terrifying, unfamiliar feeling that he was falling with her.