Chapter 13
Ever since the auction, Quentin had become a shadow I couldn’t escape.
Flowers, extravagant gifts, relentless phone calls–it was a campaign of obsession, impossible to ignore. Daily, new packages arrived at the estate: lush bouquets of roses paired with desperate notes begging for forgiveness, sparkling jewelry I had no desire to keep. Even changing phone numbers offered no reprieve–Quentin always found a way through.
At first, I tried to push it aside, hoping the storm would pass. But suffocation crept in quickly, wrapping around me like a net pulled taut.
Wesley didn’t wait for it to get worse. He
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hired bodyguards and ordered that I never leave the estate alone. His protectiveness even extended to officially filing a restraining order against Quentin.
“Let me handle this,” Wesley said late one night as we sat in the study. His hand lightly brushed against mine, steady and sure. “You shouldn’t have to deal with him anymore.”
For weeks afterward, there was quiet, the kind of silence that didn’t come with relief but with the sharp edge of anticipation. The flowers stopped. The incessant calls fell away. For the first time in what felt like forever, I could exhale.
But deep down, I knew it wasn’t over.
Even amidst the relative calm, I refused to set aside my investigation into my mother’s death. Her memory lingered like an
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unresolved chord, haunting and persistent. Wesley supported me unwaveringly; together, we unraveled threads long buried, searching for answers about the day she died.
One afternoon, Wesley entered the living room, a folder clutched in his hand and fire in his eyes.
“I’ve got a lead,” he said, lowering himself onto the couch beside me.
“Who?” I asked, my body tensing as I leaned closer.
“A nurse,” Wesley revealed, his voice heavy with significance. “She was in the operating room the day of your mother’s surgery. She’s been in hiding all these years, living in the suburbs under an assumed identity.”
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My heart raced. For the first time, we had something tangible. Someone who might hold the missing piece.
“I’m coming with you,” I declared before I could think twice.
Wesley’s jaw tightened as he shook his head. “No. It’s too dangerous–for you and for the baby. Especially with Quentin still out there.”
“I’m fine, I cut in, the words clumsy and defensive.
He placed a protective hand over my stomach, his gaze softening into something that made me want to cry and scream all at once. “Iris,” he murmured, “please. Let me handle this.”
I held his eyes for a long moment, then
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nodded reluctantly. “Fine. Just… be careful,” I whispered.
“I promise,” he replied, pressing a kiss to my forehead before walking out the door.
With Wesley gone, I busied myself nesting in the baby’s room.
The soft yellow walls exuded warmth, and each piece of furniture seemed to hum with promise. Every detail had been carefully chosen, a labor of love that finally made me smile. As I adjusted items on the dresser, I paused, thinking of Wesley.
Even though the baby wasn’t biologically his, he treated it as if it were. The way he spoke about the future, about being a father–it tore at something deep inside me, a piece I hadn’t realized was still raw.
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For the first time, I let the impossible slip into my mind: a future where I could give Wesley a child of his own.
I must have dozed off amidst folded blankets and tiny shoes because I woke to a sharp, alien pressure in my stomach. It wasn’t pain, not exactly, but it was strange enough to set my heart racing.
With Wesley still away, I quickly called one of the bodyguards.
“I think I need to go to the hospital,” I said, forcing my voice steady.
“We’ll take you,” he assured me, his tone calm but firm.
The drive started uneventfully, tense yet quiet. But that sense of unease grew, coiling tighter in my gut as the car sped forward.
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Then one of the bodyguards spoke. “We’re being followed.”
My breath hitched. “Who is it?” I asked, even as dread pooled hot and thick in my chest.
The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, his expression grim. “It’s him. It’s Quentin.”
My fists clenched as panic ignited in my veins. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the driver confirmed. “He’s been tailing us since we pulled out of the estate.”
My phone buzzed in my hand, and against my better judgment, I answered.
“Iris,” came Quentin’s voice, frantic and raw.
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“Just listen to me. Please. I just want to talk.”
“No,” I bit out, my voice shaking. “Leave me alone.”
“Iris!” he shouted, desperation seeping through the line. “I’ll explain everything–just hear me out!”
I hung up. My heart thundered as I tried to focus on breathing, but it was hard when every inhale felt tight, constricted.
“Stay calm, ma’am,” one of the guards said firmly.
But calm? Calm was impossible.
I didn’t see what happened next.
The car swerved violently, and chaos erupted -a sickening crunch of metal, the
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high–pitched shatter of glass, the violent jolt of my body being thrown forward. Then… darkness.
When light returned, the first thing I saw was Wesley’s face, his eyes red–rimmed and weary.
“Iris,” he called softly, his hand brushing my cheek like a lifeline. “You’re safe now. It’s
okay.”
My throat was dry and raw as I rasped, “What… what happened?”
Wesley hesitated, his breath steady but brittle. “You were in an accident,” he said carefully.
I tried to sit up, but a piercing pain in my stomach stopped me cold. My stomach.
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A silent, suffocating dread settled over me. My wide eyes met Wesley’s, and in his haunted expression, I found the answer before he could say a word.
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head as tears streamed down my face. “No, no, no.”
“Iris…” His voice cracked, his hands
steadying me as the walls of my world caved in around me.
“No!” I cried, louder now, until the sound shattered into sobs.
Wesley pulled me close, and for the first time, his composure broke. “I’m so sorry,” he choked out.
And as his words sank in, the weight of them suffocated me, a grief so all–consuming it silenced the world.
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The baby was gone.
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