Reborn Heiress: Escaping My Contract Marriage with the Cold CEO Chapter 31: Technically Right But Annoyingly So

VANESSA BELMONT

The mont Malone said they’d found Mr. Haynes, the room did that fun little tilt-and-spin thing that made question whether I’d accidentally ingested hallucinogens. Or maybe it was just the blood loss. Hard to say.

"Where is Haynes?" asked Nathan.

"Jang morial."

I blinked. "Wait. Jang morial? As in, the one with the overpriced lattes in the lobby and the doctors who charge you just for breathing the sa air as them?"

"My family owns three hospitals," said Nathan. "This one is closest to the accident site."

Nathan’s gaze flicked to the bloodstain on my shirt—now a fashion statent and a dical concern. What can I say? I’m a multi-tasker.

"You need a doctor," said Nathan.

"Great. Then we’re already on the sa page, because Haynes is at a hospital where there are... guess what? Doctors." I gestured vaguely toward the door. "Let’s go."

Nathan exhaled through his nose, the way he always did when I was technically right but annoyingly so. "Malone, the car."

"Yes, sir."

I attempted to stand. My legs buckled the second I put weight on them. The room lurched sideways, and for a half-second, gravity almost won.

Nathan caught before I face-planted into an actual, and sad-looking, potted plant. (It would’ve been a rcy killing. That thing was not thriving.)

His arm hooked around my waist, yanking upright with ease. "I’ve got you," he said softly, his breath warm against my temple. He scooped into his arms and headed toward the door.

"Sorry, Prince Charming. I think I got blood on your designer shirt."

"I can buy more shirts."

"You can buy more everything," I muttered. "Including small countries."

Nathan carried as if I were sothing precious. The crisp evening air danced across my skin, but all I could feel was the warmth radiating from him, the steady beat of his heart against my side.

Malone held open the car door, the interior lights casting a soft glow over the plush seats. Nathan lowered gently inside, his touch lingering for just a mont too long before he carefully reached across to fasten the seatbelt. As he pulled away, our eyes t, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just us—to the unspoken possibilities of a real marriage, a real relationship.

On the car ride to Jang morial, city lights streaked past the windows like sared neon. Every pothole sent a fresh jolt of pain through my ribs, and I couldn’t hold back my ouchie-ouch groaning.

"We’ll be there soon." Nathan took my hand and squeezed, his grip tight, as if trying to press his own strength into .

When we arrived at the hospital, Nathan scooped up before my feet could even touch the pavent, his arms secure around .

He bypassed the main entrance entirely. We entered the VIP wing—which was only for Jang family mbers. The second we stepped inside, white-coated professionals poured into the hall.

The sterile brightness of the hallway made feel exposed, especially with so many doctors and nurses swarming around us. "Nate, put down.

"No."

The word was absolute, leaving no room for argunt.

A doctor stepped forward, clipboard in hand. "Mr. Jang, we’ll take it from here—"

Nathan cut him off with a single glance. "No," he said again. He clutched tighter as if soone might try to take away from him. I didn’t think there was single person present with the kind of courage it would take to deprive Nathan Jang of what--and who--he wanted.

The staff exchanged uneasy looks but didn’t challenge him. Instead, they ushered us down the hall, their shoes squeaking against the polished floors. They led us to an examination room.

"Mr. Jang," the lead doctor said, nodding at Nathan before looking at . "And Mrs. Jang. What’s going on, sir? How can we help?"

I scowled. "I’m not Mrs. Jang. Also, I’m a wuss when it cos to needles, pain, and sharp objects."

"Are you sure you don’t want to be Mrs. Jang?" asked Nathan in a low voice. "I can always send the bill to Vanessa Belmont."

"I’m definitely Mrs. Jang," I told the doctor.

The man cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should focus on your injuries?"

"Fine. But if you try to upsell an IV of organic kale juice or whatever, I’m leaving."

Nathan rolled his eyes. "She’s lost blood. Ignore her."

"Excuse , I’m right here and still fully capable of being a pain in your ass."

Nathan carefully placed on the exam table, his hands lingering just a second too long—as if he was afraid I’d crumble the mont he let go. The paper sheet crinkled under , and the too-bright overhead lights made my head throb.

"Mrs. Jang," the doctor began, his voice smooth with practiced calm, "if you could just lie down—"

"What’s the update on Carver Haynes?" I demanded, cutting him off. My fingers dug into the edge of the table, the pain in my ribs nothing compared to the gnawing dread in my gut.

"Forget Haynes," he said. "Focus on you."

My pulse was a wild, uneven drumbeat in my throat. What if Carver was—

No. I wouldn’t even let myself finish that thought.

"Haynes is in critical condition," the doctor said, his tone carefully neutral. "Gunshot wound to the abdon."

The words hit like a physical blow. The room tilted, the antiseptic sll suddenly too strong, too suffocating. Critical. Gunshot. Abdon.

"How critical?" My voice ca out thin, brittle.

The doctor hesitated—just a fraction of a second, but it was enough to make my stomach drop. "He’s in surgery now," she said. "We’ll know more soon."

Soon. That word was a torture all its own. Soon could an anything. Soon could an too late.

I looked at Nathan. My lower lip trembled.

"Are you going to cry?" Nathan’s expression turned to panic. Then he pointed at and said, "Sedate her."

The doctor chuckled nervously. "I think rest and fluids will suffice." He lifted my shirt and examined the wound. "Oh, and you’ll need stitches."

I grabbed the doctor’s sleeve. "You heard the man. Sedate ."