Chapter 4

Clara's POV

When I woke up, the hospital room was dead empty.

Under the blankets, everything felt cold and wet. Blood was still oozing out, sticking uncomfortably to my inner thighs.

I stretched my arm out to reach for the call button by the bed.

I pressed it repeatedly, the plastic casing clicking sharply, but the hallway remained dead silent.

I tried to push myself up against the headboard, but my head fell heavily back onto the pillow.

Faintly, Evelyn's voice drifted through the door.

"Chloe was so frightened her heart started racing. She's at home crying her eyes out. How dare Clara get pregnant at a time like this?"

Thomas's voice followed immediately.

"If I knew she was this malicious, I never would've brought her in. Even a stray dog wags its tail when you feed it."

I slammed my palm against the bed frame and shouted toward the door, "I'm hemorrhaging! Call the doctor!"

The voices outside paused for two seconds.

The shadows beneath the door gap shifted. Two silhouettes stepped back, and the sound of footsteps faded into the distance.

I pulled my gaze back and stared blankly at the ceiling.

I foolishly thought that bleeding out would be enough for them to push the door open and check on me.

They heard me. And they still walked away.

Half an hour later, Ethan pushed the door open, carrying a thermos.

He shut the door behind him, set the thermos on the nightstand, and casually slipped my phone from my pillow into his coat pocket.

"When you do something wrong, you have to pay the price," he said, looking down at me.

"I didn't do anything wrong," I said, biting my lower lip. "The bleeding won't stop. Go get a doctor."

Ethan looked down at the dark red stains on the sheet, his brow furrowing slightly.

His hand lifted halfway, hovered in the air for two seconds, and then slid back into his pocket.

"Just bear with it," he said. "You'll be fine in a couple of days."

"Ethan, this isn't a scraped knee from falling down the stairs," I stared at him. "A baby was just torn out of my body, and you're telling me to bear with it?"

Ethan turned his head, avoiding my gaze.

"I'll go get a nurse at the front desk."

He turned and walked out.

Ten minutes later, he came back alone, his hands empty, with no nurse behind him.

He unscrewed the thermos, poured half a bowl of cream of mushroom soup, and set it on the nightstand.

"Drink it while it's hot."

I didn't look at the bowl.

"The doctor said this is normal after surgery. Stop scaring yourself," Ethan adjusted his collar. "I have an international video conference for the company. I'll come back later."

The door clicked shut behind him, the lock engaging with a crisp snap.

Bracing myself against the bed rail, I sat up, picked up the bowl, and shuffled step by agonizing step into the bathroom. I poured the soup down the sink and rinsed it completely away.

I placed the empty bowl back in the thermos, screwed the lid tight, and stuffed it beneath the cabinet.

I crawled back into bed, pulled the blanket up to my chin, and gripped the sheets with white knuckles.

Darkness swallowed the room completely. The lights weren't on, leaving me in pitch-black isolation.

A violent chill seized me, and my entire body began to shake.

I opened my mouth to call for help, but my throat was parched, producing nothing more than a dry, wheezing gasp.

In the dead of night, my fever spiked dangerously.

Everything in front of me spun wildly. One moment, I was back in that leaky shack from my childhood; the next, my foster father was raising a broom over me; and then, Ethan was kneeling to wipe the dirt from my face.

I reached out to grab something, but my fingers closed only around cold sweat.

My body tilted, and half of my torso slipped over the edge of the mattress. My head hung suspended in the air, without an ounce of strength left to pull myself back up.

The call button cord dangled against the floor tiles just a short distance away.

I stretched my fingertips out, fell inches short, and blacked out as I crashed to the floor.

When I opened my eyes again, the frantic rattling of gurney wheels filled my ears.

A nurse was shoving an oxygen cannula into my nose as the gurney crashed through the emergency room doors.

"Temperature 103.6! Severe uterine infection and massive hemorrhaging!"

The nurse screamed down the hall, "If you'd brought her in twenty minutes later, she would've been dead!"

I kept my eyes open, watching the fluorescent ceiling lights blur past.

I hadn't died.

By the time they finished resuscitating me and wheeled me back to a standard ward, it was already the following afternoon.

A nurse's aide wiped the cold sweat from my forehead, sighing and muttering that the rounds nurse had found me hanging halfway off the bed, surrounded by pools of blood, my face as pale as chalk.

"The doctor was furious with your family all night. He said they were heartless to leave a patient alone overnight right after a D&C."

My voice came out raspy. "Did anyone come looking for me last night?"

The aide shook her head.

"Not a single person. No one even called."

I nodded slowly and closed my eyes.

From now on, I had nothing left to do with any of them.

It took two full days for my fever to break, leaving my lips cracked and peeling.

The Gray family sent their driver with a gift basket; I told the aide to throw it straight into the trash.

Ethan's assistant sent flowers and fruit; I turned them away at the door just the same.

The aide asked me, "Miss Brooks, the hospital still needs a family member's signature for your follow-up medication. Are you really not going to call them?"

"I'll sign it myself."

"You're so young. Why stay mad at your family?"

I turned my head toward the window, looking at the bare, lifeless tree branches outside.

"I'm not mad. I'm just clearing the space for them."

On the third morning, Ethan pushed the door open.

Carrying an expensive gift box, he walked briskly over and stopped beside my bed.

I turned my face toward the plain white wall, not even bothering to lift an eyelid.

Ethan stood there for a moment before picking up the water cup on the nightstand. He poured some warm water, tested the temperature against the back of his hand, and placed it within my easy reach.

I stared at the tiny crack in the wall paint.

Two nights ago, when I was hanging off the bed desperately reaching for the call cord, he was nowhere to be found. Today, he showed up playing the devoted caretaker, meticulously testing the temperature of a cup of water. It was a laughable, sickening joke.