* FREEBIE * 2nd * Chapter 206

Serena was wheeled quietly into the hospital ward, a ghost of herself, pale against the sterile linens.

When she finally opened her eyes, all she saw was white—walls, ceiling, bedsheets—blinding and clinical, the color of silence and loss. Her lashes fluttered against the stark brightness as her mind struggled to catch up to her body.

A voice cut through the stillness, flat and indifferent.

"You're awake. The procedure was a painless abortion—no need for hospitalization. You’re free to leave. Mrs. Vanderbilt has already settled the bill."

The words hit like a hammer. Serena’s vision tunneled, her chest tightened, and for a brief moment, the world dimmed at the edges. She barely managed to remain upright.

The doctor went on, unaffected.

"Try to rest when you get home. Eat something warm. You’ll regain strength in a few days—it won’t affect your work."

Serena opened her mouth, struggling to speak, but her voice caught in her throat—raw, brittle, unusable. It felt like Alexander’s hand was back around her neck, like the night he’d pressed her into the tree, except this time, the pressure was inside her chest. Cracking her open from the inside out.

The doctor glanced at his clipboard, adding clinically:

"Avoid intercourse for a week. Let your body recover."

Then he turned to leave, his hand already reaching for the doorknob.

Serena finally found her voice, hoarse and fractured.

"I’ll sue you."

The doctor paused. Slowly, he turned back to face her, his expression unreadable.

"Miss Morales, your mother-in-law signed the consent. She’s family. Given you were unconscious at the time, we had legal grounds to proceed. I’ve seen this happen many times—you won’t get far taking legal action. You should go home and rest."

His tone was cool, almost dismissive, and then he stepped out, closing the door behind him with a muted click.

Serena stared at the ceiling, her fists clenched tightly beneath the blanket. The sterile quiet of the ward wrapped around her like a suffocating shroud.

The doctor was right.

No one would listen to her.

She curled onto her side, every part of her aching with a grief that had no shape. There was no baby to mourn, no heartbeat that she had heard. But in her mind, she had already started to imagine it—the fragile life growing inside her, the choice she never got to make.

Now, that choice was gone. Taken. Stolen from her.

She lay there until dusk settled beyond the window, her body motionless, her soul bruised and silent.

When she finally left the hospital, she walked like someone underwater, every step heavy and disoriented. The sky above had dimmed to a dusky lavender, but she didn’t notice the beauty of it.

Her phone buzzed quietly on the seat beside her—still untouched since that morning.

Cordelia had made sure she wouldn’t contact Mr. Vanderbilt Sr.

She knew. If the old man found out what had been done—especially under his nose—he’d be furious. And his heart couldn’t take that fury. He was ill. Vulnerable.

So Serena kept the secret inside her chest like a stone. She didn’t dare breathe a word.

As she slid into the backseat of the cab and leaned her head against the window, a wave of nausea surged through her. Her stomach convulsed, but there was nothing to bring up—nothing left.

Only the hollow ache of what had been stolen before she could even hold it in her hands.

---

Serena had no memory of how she got back to Le Châteauesque Manor.

The journey from the hospital to the villa was a haze, the kind where your body moves but your soul lags behind. When she finally collapsed onto her bed, she didn’t move. Tears streamed down the sides of her face, soaking into the cool linen pillow, her body trembling with each silent sob. Her fingers clutched the bedsheet so tightly her knuckles turned white, and she bit her lower lip until she tasted iron—refusing to let a sound escape.

A soft knock came at the door.

"Miss Morales, I made some soup for you. You should try to eat something," came Aunt Torres’ gentle voice, muffled slightly by the wood.

She didn’t know what had happened—only that Serena had seemed pale and distant these past few days. Not herself. Not even a shadow of her usual calm poise.

Still facing the wall, Serena forced herself to steady her voice.

"Aunt Torres, I'm not hungry."

There was a pause. A sigh.

"Alright, dear. I’ll keep it warm. Maybe you’ll want it later."

"Okay," Serena whispered, each word scraping her raw throat like sandpaper.

Minutes passed. Then hours. She remained there, motionless.

Eventually, her thoughts drifted to the box in her closet—the one she'd tucked away months ago, maybe out of hope or maybe out of self-preservation. She rose slowly and opened it.

Inside: a letter, a ring, and an old notebook.

She pulled out the letter and unfolded it with trembling hands. It wasn’t long, but every word felt like a blade reopening old wounds. She read it through tears, the ink blurring as salty drops soaked into the paper. Still, she didn’t stop reading—not even when she could barely see. Her shoulders shook as she wept silently, until exhaustion pulled her into a restless sleep.

But peace didn’t last.

Around midnight, her stomach churned violently. She shot upright, barely making it to the bathroom in time to vomit. She doubled over, clutching her abdomen, the pain sharp and nauseating.

Stumbling back into the room, she reached blindly into a drawer for some stomach pills, dry-swallowed one, then added a melatonin tablet, hoping to force her body back into sleep.

As she collapsed onto the bed again, her phone vibrated.

It was Rachel.

Serena hesitated, wiping her eyes and trying to sound normal before answering.

Rachel's voice was soft but urgent.

"Ava, I’m at the hospital right now. Tom’s cousin… her condition suddenly got worse. She needs brain surgery, but she’s scared. Won’t agree to it. Her name is Zoe—she’s young, delicate. Looks like porcelain when she sleeps."

There was a beat before she added, "I told them the only reason I was able to get this international neurosurgeon was because of you. So... if anyone asks, please go along with it. Alright?"

Serena leaned against the wall, blinking slowly.

"Mm-hmm."

Rachel paused.

"You sound awful. Are you sick? Do you have a cold?"

"No," Serena rasped.

Another pause. Longer this time. Then Rachel’s voice softened.

"What’s wrong? Ava, if you need me, I’ll come right now."

Silence stretched.

Then Serena spoke, barely above a whisper.

"I just… miss my mom."

The words came out before she could catch them, and once they did, they lingered in the air, raw and painful.

Rachel’s chest ached. She could still remember the little girl she’d first met in middle school, sitting quietly at the edge of noisy rooms, always observing, never intruding. Strong. Distant. Self-contained.

"Do you want me to go with you to her grave? She might miss you too."

Serena's eyes stung again, but she shook her head, even though Rachel couldn’t see her.

"I was just joking. I just got back from Ridgefield. You should go—be with Zoe."

Rachel didn’t press. "If anything happens, promise you’ll call me."

"Mm-hmm."

When the call ended, Serena placed her phone face down and curled back into her pillow. The position she'd been in for too long had made her neck ache, but she didn’t shift. She held onto a corner of the blanket as if it were someone’s hand, as if that simple grip might ward off the emptiness pressing in from every side.

Eventually, she fell into sleep again—if that state of numb oblivion could be called sleep at all.

---

After Rachel hung up with Serena, she turned and spotted Tom emerging from the doctor's office.

The corridor lights cast deep shadows beneath his eyes. He looked worn, like someone who hadn’t slept all night—which was true. The renowned neurosurgeon Rachel had pulled strings to bring in had stayed up reviewing scans and prepping for a possible emergency operation. Everyone was running on fumes.

Rachel walked up quickly, her heels clicking lightly on the linoleum floor.

The tension in the air was palpable. She had wanted to greet Tom with a reassuring hug, to offer him some warmth in the middle of this storm, but the moment she stepped closer, he gently sidestepped her, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"I'm sorry, Rachel," he said, voice strained. "I’m not in the right headspace right now. Would you mind waiting outside? Zoe probably doesn’t want to see anyone unfamiliar."

Rachel blinked, a little stung, but nodded quickly.

"Of course. I’ll wait right here."

She sat down quietly in a chair just outside Zoe’s room, hands clasped in her lap. As she watched Tom walk inside, a small pang of unease bloomed in her chest.

Inside the room, Zoe sat upright in bed, pale and visibly anxious. The IV in her hand glinted under the hospital light. When she saw Tom, her eyes immediately welled up.

"Tom..." her voice was soft, almost childlike. "I feel so dizzy..."

He rushed to her side, pouring her a glass of warm water.

"It’s the stress," he said gently, placing the glass in her hands. "You haven’t eaten much either. Listen, Zoe—this doctor is the best in the field. His hands have saved more people than we can count. Don’t be scared. This surgery... it’s your best shot."

Zoe’s small fingers clutched at his sleeve, her voice trembling.

"I’m just... afraid. What if I die? I don’t want to leave you, Tom. I want to stay by your side. Forever."

Tom paused, his eyes softening as he brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

"You won’t die. I won’t let you. But we can’t keep waiting. The doctor warned me—if we delay any longer, it might be too late."

Zoe stared down at her lap, then back at him.

"Who was that woman? The one who came with you today?"

Tom didn’t even flinch.

"Just a friend. We met through work."

Zoe's shoulders relaxed, a flicker of a smile brushing her lips.

"She’s pretty."

Tom didn't respond. Instead, he gently massaged her stiff leg, the one that had been causing her trouble.

After a few moments, she took a sip of the water. He reached over and dabbed a tissue against her chin where a few drops had dribbled.

Then she closed her eyes, and he could feel what she was silently asking for.

A kiss.

He glanced instinctively at the door. It was closed. Rachel wouldn’t see.

Then, he leaned forward and kissed her—softly at first, then deeper. Zoe sighed against him, her small hands curling into his shirt. When he finally pulled away, her eyes shimmered, full of breathless affection.

"Be good, Zoe," he said, brushing his thumb across her cheek. "I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you."

She nodded faintly.

"I’ll think about it, Tom. I promise."

"Don’t think too long. This is your best chance."

She nodded again, quieter this time, her voice almost a whisper.

"I’ll listen to you. I’ll always listen to you."

Tom gave her a final kiss—gentler this time, almost reverent—before standing up.

Zoe watched him as he moved toward the door, then called out softly,

"Tom… don’t let that woman get too close to you. I didn’t like the flowers she brought. Please… take them away."

He hesitated, but didn’t argue. He picked up the bouquet Rachel had left, walked out of the room, and tossed it in a nearby trash bin. He even tied the bag closed.

Outside, Rachel had been dozing lightly, her head leaned against the cool plaster of the wall. As soon as she saw him emerge, she stood.

"Tom," she greeted warmly. Her voice was hopeful.

"How is she? Did Zoe agree to the surgery?"

Tom gave her a quick nod and started walking toward the elevator with her, his face unreadable.

"She’s thinking about it."

As they stepped out into the fresh night air, Rachel tried to lighten the mood.

"She’s young. Fragile, yes, but she has time to recover. The doctor will take care of her. And… if the hospital costs are too high, I can..."

She hesitated, then added gently,

"I can ask my friend for help. She’s really wealthy."

Tom didn't answer. He was carrying the tied-up trash bag and tossed it into a dumpster with one fluid motion.

Rachel was wearing heels and had been standing too long. She winced and whispered,

"My feet hurt..."

Without a word, Tom bent down.

"Come on," he offered. "I’ll carry you."

She blinked in surprise, then giggled and climbed onto his back, her arms looped around his neck and her chin resting lightly on his shoulder.

"I think they’re swollen. I’m not used to standing so long in heels."

Tom gave a quiet hum.

"Want me to massage them when we get home?"

She chuckled.

"You’re too good to me."

He didn’t answer. His shoulders were tense, his jaw tight.

Rachel didn’t notice—she was lost in the moment, while Tom’s mind was far away, clouded by things left unsaid.