7

Jay:

I dressed up  in haste, fingers fumbling with the buttons of my crisp white shirt as the first hints of 

Paris dawn filtered through the heavy velvet curtains of our suite.

 My heart raced with a fear I couldn’t outrun. 

Jewel lay sleeping peacefully in the king-sized bed, her dark hair fanned across the silk pillows, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me. 

I couldn’t wake her, can't even tell her what's going on.

Walking out quietly, I took the private elevator down to the marble lobby, where the night concierge nodded politely. 

 I got inside my car, my chest tightening with every passing block as we sped toward the American Hospital of Paris in Neuilly-sur-Seine.

Was Betty pregnant before she left the mansion that fateful night? I thought, the question tormented me as I drove  through the elegant Haussmann boulevards lined with chestnut trees. 

I didn’t even know what to think anymore. I just hope that the one-night mistake wasn’t the cause of her pregnancy. 

That would be the worst mistake of my life—a mistake that could shatter everything.

We've signed the divorce papers already, and she already left.

I didn’t love Betty. It was Jewel who held my heart, completely and irrevocably. Her smile, her laugh echoing through the corridors of our shared dreams.

A pregnancy shouldn't ruin it. Because I've never seen Betty with another guy, she hated partying or going out so it's all leading to that one nightstand. 

If Betty is carrying my child, how would I ever build a life with Jewel? The thought clawed at my insides.

My mind drift back to that disastrous night, weeks ago.

I came home late to our sprawling estate just outside the city—drunk, exhausted, desperate to silence the constant thoughts of Jewel that haunted me. 

Alcohol rarely affected me that way; I had only drunk to numb the ache and force myself to sleep. Stumbling into the bedroom, I found Betty waiting, dressed in a sheer silk negligee that clung to her curves under the soft glow of the bedside lamp. 

In my haze, my restraint vanished. It just happened. I blamed her the next day because she knew my heart didn't belong to her, she knew I was in love with someone else yet the guilt now rested heavily on my own shoulders.

The taxi pulled up to the modern glass entrance of the American Hospital. I paid the driver and rushed inside, the sterile scent of antiseptic hitting me like a wave. 

The reception area was quiet at this early hour, with soft lighting and a view of the manicured gardens outside. A middle-aged nurse looked up from her desk, her eyes narrowing in recognition.

“Mr. Blackwood?” she asked in accented English.

I nodded, running a hand through my disheveled hair. 

“Yes, I received the call about Betty. How is she?”

She offered a kind but professional smile. “She’s in Ward 12 on the third floor. The doctor is with her now. Take the elevators to your left. I’ll let them know you’ve arrived.”

“Thank you,” I muttered, already moving. 

The elevator ride felt eternal, my reflection in the mirrored walls showing a tired man —dark circles under my eyes, jaw clenched. 

It's all  suddenly mocking. How had everything spiraled so far from the idyllic week Jewel and I had planned?

When the doors opened on the third floor, the corridor was hushed, the hum of medical equipment the only sound.

 A  tall man in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard, emerged from a room and extended his hand.

“Mr. Blackwood. I’m Dr. Moreau,”

“Is my wife alright? What went wrong? Tell me everything,” I said, my voice low and urgent.

He led me to a small consultation alcove nearby, gesturing for me to sit. 

The window overlooked the distant rooftops of Paris, the Sacré-Cœur Basilica faintly visible on the hill. 

“Betty was involved in a serious single-vehicle accident on the outskirts of the city last night. She lost control on the wet roads according to what the police told me. Initial scans show a fractured tibia and fibula in her right leg. We’ve performed emergency surgery to stabilize it with plates and screws. 

“I hope she didn't get hurt?” I ask him, my chest aching.

“The leg is now heavily bandaged and elevated to reduce swelling.”

Fuck, it's way serious than I thought. I should've stopped her from leaving last night.

He paused, consulting his tablet. “She also suffered a moderate concussion and some spinal contusions. No fractures there, thankfully, but there’s significant swelling. 

“Can I see her now?”

“She’s unconscious at the moment, in a medically induced coma to give her body time to heal. We’re monitoring intracranial pressure closely. Vital signs are stable for now, but she’s critical. The pregnancy complicates things.”

My breath caught, I don’t know how to process it in my brain.

Dr. Moreau nodded solemnly. “ About six weeks along, based on bloodwork. The fetus appears viable so far, but the trauma puts both at high risk. We’ve administered medications safe for pregnancy to manage pain and prevent preterm complications. She’ll need complete bed rest if she wakes up.”

The words blurred together. Pregnant. Six weeks. The timeline aligned with that one night. I gripped the edge of the chair, fuck, her father will ruin me if anything happens to her.

Why didn't I just stop her from going? I was still lost in thought when my phone ran in my pocket, with emotions settling in me, I brought it out to see who's calling.

Marcus Harrington is calling, the news must've reached him. Afterall Betty is his only daughter, who doesn’t know Marcus Harrington in Paris?

Staring at the screen until it stopped ringing before looking at the doctor again.

“Can I see her?” I ask him, letting out a deep sigh.

“Of course. But keep it brief. She needs a lot of rest.”

He led me to the door of Ward 12. I stepped inside, and the sight hit me like a physical blow. 

Betty lay motionless in the adjustable hospital bed, surrounded by beeping monitors and IV drips. Her right leg was encased in thick white bandages and a metal frame, elevated on pillows. 

Bruises bloomed across her forehead and cheekbones, a stark contrast to her usually flawless olive skin. Tubes snaked from her arms, and an oxygen mask covered her nose and mouth. 

She looked so small, so fragile against the crisp white sheets—nothing like the confident woman I saw last night when she asked for a divorce. 

I sank into the chair beside her bed, taking her cold hand in mine. 

“Betty…what have you done to yourself?” I whispered