Chapter 3

Clara's POV

After my treatment was halted, I didn't just sit there waiting to die.

The conditions in the general ward were terrible. The elderly patient in the next bed coughed through the night, and my personal nurse had been replaced.

I didn't complain once. I simply had Henry bring over every piece of documentation we needed.

On the second night in the general ward, I was hooked up to a standard saline drip to maintain basic hydration.

Halfway through the bag, violent red hives erupted across my entire body, and my throat tightened until I couldn't breathe.

The on-duty emergency team slammed the door open with a crash cart, injecting an epinephrine shot and pumping me with antihistamines. It wasn't until dawn that my breathing leveled out.

The doctor reviewed my charts that morning, stating I had no prior allergic history and suggesting I had secretly tampered with the medication.

Leaning against the headboard, I stated calmly that I hadn't touched a thing.

The doctor scribbled a quick note in the chart and left.

I watched the nurse toss the empty IV bag into the biohazard bin without saying a word.

However, I burned the serial number printed on the seal into my memory.

That afternoon, Julian came back.

Right in front of him, I dialed Henry and hit speakerphone.

The phone lay flat on the nightstand, Henry's voice echoing clearly through the room.

Henry laid out the facts line by line: None of the Vance family assets had been transferred illegally; pulling the notarized equity records was standard legal procedure for divorce asset division; and the hospital's unilateral termination of a patient's life-sustaining therapy was a severe violation of medical protocol.

"As for Ms. Bennett's accusation that Clara 'targeted the child'—Mr. Hayes, do you have a single frame of security footage or a single witness testimony to prove it?"

Henry asked crisply over the phone.

Julian sneered, dismissing it entirely, claiming a paid lawyer would naturally spin lies for his client.

He turned his gaze toward Chloe, who was standing by the door.

Chloe was holding Lily, her eyes rimmed with red, her pale lips trembling as she leaned against the doorframe, playing the picture of a helpless victim.

Julian stepped over, wrapping an arm around Chloe's shoulders.

"Chloe has had it hard enough raising a child alone. Why would she frame you? You, on the other hand, rushed to force me to sign the papers the second you woke up. How do you expect me to believe you?"

I pulled out the complete file Henry had assembled from under my pillow—bank statements, notarized pre-marital asset agreements, and the caretaker's shift logs from that day—and pushed them neatly in front of Julian.

Every transaction matched up, and the caretaker had documented in black and white that I hadn't stepped into the courtyard that day.

My voice was calm as I explained every detail.

Julian didn't even lift a hand. He shoved the documents away with disgust.

"Save it. It's too easy for you to forge these papers."

Keeping his arm around Chloe, he turned toward the door. Pausing at the threshold, he cast a cold, mocking look at my hollow cheeks.

"When you come to your senses and apologize to Chloe, your treatment will be restored. Until then, you can rot right here."

Watching their retreating backs, I whispered softly, "Julian Hayes, you will regret this."

My voice was low, instantly swallowed by the noisy corridor outside.

I reached out, gathering the scattered documents one by one, and slipped them back into the folder.

I knew Julian couldn't digest these facts right now. But a day would come when he would drop to his knees, begging to read every single word on these pages.

Later that afternoon, Ethan Cole pushed the door open.

He was still in green surgical scrubs with a lab coat slung over his arm, his mask pulled beneath his chin, clearly fresh off the operating table.

The moment he walked in, his eyes swept over the empty IV pole beside the bed.

"How many days has your treatment been stopped?" Ethan asked directly.

Leaning against the headboard, I looked up at him.

During my four-year coma, the Hayes Hospital had brought in countless specialists, but Ethan was the only one who visited twice a year without fail.

Every visit, he did only three things: review the original charts, test my muscle reflexes, and give detailed instructions to my private nurse. He never exchanged a single wasted word with the Hayes family.

"Julian ordered it personally," I said.

Ethan gave a low hum of acknowledgment, tucked the medical charts under his arm, walked to the window, and dialed a number.

Two minutes later, he hung up, turned around, and laid out three points in rapid succession.

First, he had reorganized my physical therapy plan—two sessions a day handled by his personal specialist, bypassing the Hayes Hospital system, billed directly to his personal account.

Second, he had already subpoenaed and archived copies of my original medical records, including the exact timestamps of the drug cessation orders, the names of the nurses who executed them, and the attending physician's signature.

Third, he was coordinating a bed transfer to move me straight to the Neuro-ICU center at his hospital.

When he finished, I looked at him and asked, "Why are you getting involved in this?"

Ethan slid his phone into his coat pocket, his tone as matter-of-fact as if he were discussing a routine procedure.

"You lay in that bed for four full years. Over those four years, I signed over a dozen consultation forms, and on every single one, I wrote: 'Recommend aggressive ongoing rehabilitation.'"

He paused, looking straight into my eyes.

"Someone just ripped up my orders and killed my treatment plan. That makes it my business, not just yours."

With that, he pulled the door open and left. His footsteps soon faded down the hall.

I stared at the stack of medical reports left at the foot of my bed, unable to look away for a long time.