Her Rise After Ruin

“Call her husband immediately! She could lose the baby if we delay any further without intervention!”

The nurse’s shout shattered the calm of the hospital lobby. I could only lean my weakened body against the cold marble wall, gripping the edge of the waiting chair with violently trembling hands. The pain twisting in my lower abdomen felt like invisible hands squeezing, trying to rip the life out of my womb. This was my second pregnancy, and I was fighting alone amid the chaos of nurses rushing back and forth.

“Ma’am, where is your husband?” the nurse approached again, her face tense as she held a file still blank without a signature. “Your pregnancy is experiencing serious complications. There’s mild internal bleeding. If your husband doesn’t sign the consent form immediately, we cannot proceed with further examination or medical procedures. This is a matter of life and death, Ma’am!”

I swallowed hard, the bitterness thick in my throat. My lips were pale and cracked, making it difficult to even form words. Seven years ago, I was the most influential woman in the film industry—a producer who could move hundreds of people with a single snap of her fingers. But now, just to save my own life, I had to depend on the signature of a man who was probably ignoring his phone on his office desk.

“Nurse, I’m sorry… let me sign it myself,” I whispered hoarsely, trying to reach for the pen in her pocket.

“You can’t, Ma’am! The rules here are absolute. The signature must come from your husband as the primary person responsible for emergency pregnancy procedures!” The nurse pulled the file away, her expression a mix of sympathy and frustration. “Please call your husband quickly, Ma’am! Otherwise, we truly can’t help you!”

I fell silent, tears beginning to pool in my eyes. Call Dewangga? That man couldn’t even bear to look at me since he found out the baby I was carrying might not be a boy. Since the birth of our first daughter, he had become cold and distant. To him, a daughter was a failure—and I was the one to blame for it.

Suddenly, the firm echo of leather shoes rang through the corridor. The chaotic atmosphere fell into sudden silence as several well-built men in black suits pushed their way in, moving with tactical precision that forced everyone in the lobby to step aside.

Haris Nasution, the King of Film, walked at the center of them, his aura of authority freezing the entire room. His sharp eyes immediately locked onto my pitiful figure in the corner.

“Give me that file,” Haris said, his voice calm yet unquestionable.

The nurse startled, scanning him from head to toe. “You… you’re her husband? Why did you take so long? Your wife needs immediate treatment!”

Haris neither denied nor confirmed it. With a swift, decisive motion, he snatched the file and signed his name boldly across the document. He returned it with a slight flick that made the nurse flinch before she hurried off to call the medical team.

As the nurses brought a stretcher to lift me, Haris stepped closer. He stood right beside me, his tall shadow covering my curled-up body.

“Serena, how long will you keep being a foolish wife, unloved by your husband?” His question struck like a slap in the middle of a storm.

I tried to steady my breathing, holding back both the pain in my stomach and the fragments of my shattered pride. “Haris… you don’t know how Dewangga loves me. You’re just a stranger passing by. You’re the King of Film—why waste your precious time dealing with my problems?”

Haris crouched in front of me, his eyes filled with something hard to decipher—somewhere between overflowing anger and deep sorrow. “I just want to wake you up, Serena! You don’t deserve to be treated like this! You are the best producer I’ve ever known—not a beggar for love in a hospital hallway!”

I turned my face away, unable to face the truth in his eyes. “Enough… I don’t need your pity. I want to go inside, and after this, I’ll go home.”

“Serena!” Haris gently but firmly held my arm as the nurses began pushing my stretcher. “I hope you wake up soon. Your husband doesn’t love you. He only loves his own ambition—and you are nothing more than a victim of your own fear to leave.”