Reborn Heiress: Escaping My Contract Marriage with the Cold CEO Chapter 45: Two thousand, Two Hundred and Eight Hours

VANESSA BELMONT

The knock at the door was sharp, insistent—like the person on the other side wanted to break in rather than politely announce their presence. Nathan and I pulled away from each other, my lips still tingling, my pulse still hamring in my throat.

"Expecting room service?" I muttered, sliding off the bar. My legs felt unsteady, and not just from the vodka.

Nathan shot a look that said shut up and stay behind . He moved toward the door.

Another knock. Harder this ti.

Nathan cracked the door open, his body blocking my view. Then—silence. A long, heavy pause.

He stepped back.

Fiona Grand walked into the suite.

I blinked. Blinked again. Because that was definitely Fiona—sa white lace dress, sa poisonous smile, sa air of fake innocence.

Except—

She’d been crushed under a chandelier not even an hour ago. I’d seen it. Blood-soaked floor, shattered crystal, dead Fiona.

And yet here she was, pristine, not a hair out of place.

"Fiona," Nathan said, voice carefully neutral. "You’re... alive."

"Disappointed?"

Yes, I thought. Very disappointed. I swallowed hard. My fingers twitched toward the nearest heavy object—a crystal decanter that would crack a skull. "You were dead."

Fiona tilted her head. "Was I?"

Nathan shifted, putting himself between us. "What do you want?"

She ignored him, her gaze locking onto mine. "You’ve been busy, Vanessa. Four lives. Four chances."

I felt my stomach hollow out. "How do you know?"

"How do I know you keep dying and getting reborn?" She laughed. "You think you and Nathan are the only ones who rember past lives?" She wagged her finger at . "Here you are, still making the sa mistakes."

Cold dread crawled up my spine. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Fiona took a step forward. Nathan tensed, but she didn’t make a move. Instead, she just watched , her gaze drilling holes into .

The room tilted. Suddenly, the air felt too thick, too heavy. The lights flickered—or maybe that was just my vision swimming.

And then—

"—pupils are dilated—"

"—shit. she’s crashing—"

"—Vanessa, please—"

Nathan’s plea.

More voices. Echoes from another room. Another life?

"She’s not waking up." A woman’s voice, strained. My mother. "It’s been weeks."

"Doctors say it’s a coma, not brain death. There’s still a chance." A man—gruff, familiar. Dad?

I tried to speak, but my tongue was lead. My vision blurred, graying around the edges. Fiona stood before , but now—now I saw through her. Like she was a projection. A ghost.

Nathan’s voice ca from far away. "Vanessa?"

Fiona’s lips curled. "She’s starting to understand."

Understand what? I wanted to scream, but the words stalled in my throat.

The voices grew louder, overlapping.

"Nathan hasn’t left her side."

"Fiona’s in custody. They found the knife."

"Vanessa, if you can hear —"

I clutched my head. The walls pulsed, breathing in and out like a living thing. The carpet beneath my feet rippled, tendrils of shadow curling up around my ankles.

And then—

Fiona’s face changed.

Her skin grayed, cracking like dried parchnt. Blood seeped from her hairline, streaking down her temple in thick, sluggish rivulets. One eye clouded over, milky and dead, while the other remained blue and clear.

Her mouth stretched too wide, lips splitting at the corners. "You left under that chandelier," she whispered, voice guttural, wet. "You watched die."

"To be fair, you deserved it." I stumbled back, knocking into the bar. Bottles rattled. My breath ca in short, panicked gasps.

Nathan hadn’t moved. Hadn’t reacted. Like he couldn’t see her rotting flesh, her broken bones jutting at wrong angles beneath her ruined dress.

"Vanessa, look at ." His voice was steady, but his grip on my arm was too tight. "You’re not breathing."

I wasn’t?

Fiona took another step. The stench hit —copper and decay, the sickly sweetness of spoiled at. Her fingers, blackened at the tips, reached for .

The room spun. The lights flickered wildly, strobing between blinding white and suffocating black.

My knees buckled.

Darkness oozed over , chilling my flesh, filling my mouth, choking . I heard Nathan shouting my na. And Fiona’s cruel laughter.

And then...

***|***|***|***|***

NATHAN JANG

Ninety-two days.

Two thousand, two hundred and eight hours of sitting in this goddamn hospital chair, watching the steady rise and fall of Vanessa’s chest, listening to the monotonous beep of the heart monitor.

I wanted to get her out of the wreck first.

That thought played on a loop in my head, sharp and unrelenting. The crash had been brutal—Fiona’s vehicle slamming into the Sweetheart Oak at sixty miles an hour, the impact crumpling the sports car like balled-up foil.

Carver and I had taken the Maybach to chase Fiona.

When Vanessa had disappeared from the reception, surveillance caras caught Fiona dragging her to the little red sports car.

After the wreck, I saw Vanessa slumped against the window, her face pale, her wedding gown bloody.

I’d tried the passenger door. Jamd shut.

Carver was on the phone with 911 as I ran around the driver’s side. I’d dragged Fiona out first—unconscious but alive—then crawled back in through the driver’s side to pull Vanessa free.

I held her tightly in my arms as we waited for the ambulance to arrive. Her breath rattled. Her body limp.

I didn’t know about the stab wounds until the doctors told .

Fiona had tried to kill her.

The doctors said it was a miracle she’d survived at all.

Fiona had been arrested—charged with attempted murder and a slew of other charges.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and scrubbed my face. The hospital slled like antiseptic and stale coffee, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

Vanessa looked peaceful like this—no smirk, no sharp retorts, no snarky bravado. I hated it. I wanted her to wake up and say sothing sarcastic.

Three months gave a man too much ti to think. Too much ti to replay every mistake, every mont where I could’ve—should’ve—seen Fiona for who she was. She’d played the victim so well, all wide eyes and trembling lips and sweet words, clinging to like I was her only lifeline. And I’d let her.

Guilt felt like rocks piled in my stomach.

Vanessa had confessed her feelings for when we signed the marriage contract, and I didn’t accept them.

We were getting married, and I ignored my wife’s feelings for .

You’re a dick, Jang.

The mory burned like acid in my chest. She’d been vulnerable for once—no sarcasm, no deflection—just raw honesty in her eyes. And what had I done? Shut her down. Like I hadn’t stolen glances at the curve of her neck or enjoyed how her lips quirked when she teased . I found reasons to be near her until Fiona ca back. And then I proceeded to be an inconsiderate jerk.

I’d been such a coward. Worse—I’d been cruel.

The door opened. A nurse stepped in, clipboard in hand. "Mr. Jang? Visiting hours are over."

"Five more minutes."

She hesitated, then nodded.

The door clicked shut behind her.

I exhaled, reaching for Vanessa’s hand. "Co on, Vanessa," I muttered. "Wake up. Wake up and I’ll do my best to protect you. To love you."

I squeezed her hand.

The first week, I’d barely slept. The second, I’d started talking to her—really talking, not just the usual wake the hell up demands.

I told her about the auction where I bought her two necklaces, one sapphire and the other ruby.

I told her about going to the birthday party of Ollie’s twin nieces. I ate ice cream, played water tag, sang karaoke. Ollie and Carver and Grace tried to keep my spirits up, but feeling happy in those few monts made feel guilty.

I told her about eting Annabeth Saint and how she ran like a frightened kitten when she heard Devon Thorne was nearby.

I also told her about how Fiona had looked when they’d hauled her away in cuffs—no tears this ti, no act. Just cold, calculated fury.

Vanessa and I had been married for three months, and we hadn’t enjoyed one day as a wedded couple. Thanks to Fiona.

Every one of the Grands were worthless. My misplaced empathy had nearly cost Vanessa her life.

"I should’ve loved you better. I should’ve pampered you. Wake up, baby. Wake up, and I’ll spoil you rotten. I promise."

After three months, I knew every freckle on her face, every scar on her hands. I knew the exact mont her breathing hitched when she dread. And I knew—knew—she was still in there, fighting.

My thumb brushed over her knuckles. "You’d hate all the waiting around," I said quietly. "You’re impatient. Impulsive. Funny. And beautiful. When I saw you in your wedding gown, I was so proud to be your husband."

The heart monitor beeped. Steady. Constant.

"I should’ve seen it," I admitted, voice rough. "Fiona. The way she manipulated everyone. The way she used ." I swallowed hard. "But that’s no excuse. I just... didn’t want to believe it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry."

Vanessa’s fingers twitched.

I froze.

Her fingers curled weakly against mine. "Vanessa? Are you ready to open your eyes? Please, baby. I promise that I will never fail you again."

Vanessa’s eyelids fluttered.

My breath caught.

And then—

She opened her eyes.