His Bride in Chains Chapter 178: Not Needed

Henry swallowed hard, his throat tight with everything he wanted to say but couldn’t. He tried to steady the tremor in his voice, to cage the storm twisting violently in his chest. "I’m so damn glad you’re safe, Eliana," he breathed, each word weighted with relief and fear. "You have no idea—the thought of losing you..." His voice cracked, and he exhaled shakily, forcing the rest out past the lump lodged in his throat. "It terrifies . Those n of his, they sound... efficient." He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing a few steps before blurting, "But listen—I can co get you right now, okay? Just hold on for . I’ll be there in minutes."

For a long mont, there was nothing—only the faint, sterile hum of hospital machines bleeding through the phone line and the muffled shuffle of footsteps on her end. He strained to catch her breath, her voice, anything that might tell him she still needed him.

Then ca it—a soft murmur, low, intimate, like a whisper ant for soone standing far too close. Henry’s pulse kicked hard. He didn’t need to guess who she was talking to. That calm, controlled presence could only belong to one man.

Rafael.

The na alone was enough to twist the knife deeper.

When she spoke again, her voice carried that familiar gentleness, laced with apology but anchored by quiet resolve. "No, Henry, that won’t be necessary. Rafael’s... pretty shaken up by all this. He wants to stay here for a full checkup—to make sure the baby’s okay, that whatever sedative they covered my nose with didn’t do any harm to my body. He’s already spoken to the doctors, arranged everything. And after..." She hesitated, the pause slicing through him like a blade. "After, he said he’d take ho himself. His security team’s on high alert now. It’s safer this way."

Her words hung in the air like a verdict.

Henry’s grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles blanched, his jaw locking as frustration flared hot and uncontainable in his chest. A checkup. Under Rafael’s watchful, calculating eye. It wasn’t concern—it was control. Another thread in the web that man wove around her, silken and suffocating all at once.

Why couldn’t she see it?

The question burned, relentless. But he swallowed it down, knowing the cost of saying it aloud. To challenge Rafael now—to even hint at distrust—would only make him sound jealous, irrational. The kind of man who couldn’t stand another’s shadow over the woman he loved. And God, that realization gutted him. Because wasn’t that exactly what he’d beco? A man twisted by jealousy, resenting the very person who had saved her life.

He hated that version of himself. The one picking at Rafael’s motives when he should just be thankful Eliana was safe. The one who couldn’t stop questioning whether she still needed him at all.

"Alright," he said finally, forcing the word past the ache in his throat. It ca out flat, lifeless, tasting like ash. "If that’s what you need. Just... promise you’ll call if anything feels off, okay? I care about you, Eliana. More than you know."

"I know you do, Henry," she whispered. Her voice softened then—warm, familiar, heartbreakingly kind. "You’re always there for . Thank you—for everything. I’ll text you when I’m ho safe."

The line went dead with a soft click that felt far too final.

Henry stayed frozen, the phone still pressed to his ear, staring blankly at the fractured glass of the screen. The faint reflection of his face—tired, bruised, and hollow—stared back at him like a stranger.

Only then did the physical pain return to his awareness: the sting of the cut on his forearm, a thin line of red already cleaned and wrapped by the paradics who’d co earlier; the dull throb of his temple beneath the sterile pad on his forehead. They’d told him he was lucky. Minor injuries. No stitches needed. He’d nodded, but the words had barely registered.

Now, as the adrenaline drained away, a heavier ache settled in—deeper, sharper, impossible to dress with gauze or antiseptic. It pulsed from sowhere beneath his ribs, from the hollow that used to be filled with certainty, with hope. With her.

And as he sat there under the dim wash of streetlight, surrounded by the fading hum of the city, Henry realized the crash hadn’t just wrecked the car. It had wrecked sothing inside him too.

Henry pushed himself to his feet, a little too fast, the world tilting before his vision steadied. A lingering passerby reached for his arm with concern in her eyes, but he brushed the concern aside with a faint, crooked smile. "I’m fine, really. Thanks." His voice was hoarse—half gratitude, half exhaustion.

The crash site was chaos—sirens blaring, radios crackling, blue and red lights splashing against the wet asphalt. Officers barked questions, bystanders whispered, caras clicked. Henry slipped away before anyone could stop him, disappearing into the swell of the London night. The air was cold and sharp, filled with exhaust fus and the distant hum of traffic. He needed space. He needed silence. Mostly, he needed to stop feeling.

A black cab slowed at the curb just as his hand shot up, muscle mory guiding him more than thought. "Nearest bar," he said, sliding into the cracked leather seat. The faint scent of tobacco and old rain clung to the interior.

The driver, a weathered man with a scruffy beard and a thick Cockney accent, caught Henry’s reflection in the rearview mirror. "Rough night, mate? You look like you’ve gone twelve rounds with life itself."

Henry huffed out sothing that might’ve been a laugh, though it died halfway. "You have no idea." He let his head fall back, eyes tracing the blur of city lights racing past the window—neon streaks promising warmth, noise, and a temporary kind of peace.

He could already taste the whiskey, the way it would scorch down his throat, numbing everything the wreck had stirred back up. Maybe it would even dull the ache of knowing Eliana was safe—just not with him. The thought tore through him, quiet and rciless.

The cab turned a corner, headlights washing over wet pavent. London moved on around him, alive and indifferent, as Henry rode deeper into the night—toward a bar, a bottle, and the fragile hope of forgetting.