The Wealthy Divorcee のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 201 - チャプター 205

The quiet hum of the ICU hummed with an ominous rhythm as the digital display above the service elevator chimed, announcing Alice Florence’s arrival on the fourth floor.Disguised in stolen blue medical scrubs, a surgical cap pulled low over her matted hair, and a sanitary mask concealing her pale, twitching face, Alice blended seamlessly into the sterile environment. In her right pocket, her fingers squeezed the grip of a heavy stainless-steel surgical scalpel. Her left wrist was hastily wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage, a grotesque souvenir from her violent escape from the police transport van.She did not feel the physical pain. Her mind had completely succumbed to a manic, blinding obsession. In her warped reality, Rex’s survival meant her absolute ruin, and Jenna’s heartbreak was the only prize left worth claiming. If she couldn't possess Rex Hidalgo, then no one would. She would sever his life support, slit his throat, and force Jenna to watch his remaining blood spill across t

The mechanical hiss of the ventilator seemed to soften, fading into the quiet background as that single, fragile whisper hung in the sterile air of ICU Suite 402."...Jen...na..."The sound was barely a rasp, stripped of its usual commanding resonance, but to Jenna, it sounded like a thunderclap breaking through a storm that had lasted two agonizing years.Her breath hitched in her chest. She froze, her hands clutching his limp fingers as if reaching across an abyss. For a second, she was terrified that if she moved or spoke, the moment would shatter, exposing itself as nothing more than a fevered illusion born from sheer exhaustion and grief."Rex?" she whispered, her voice trembling violently.Slowly, heavily, Rex’s eyelids fluttered once more. The thick, dark lashes raised to reveal irises that were clouded with pain, fogged by narcotics, and swimming in profound weakness. Yet, as his gaze swept slowly across the room, it ignored the harsh fluorescent lighting, the IV lines, and th

The tension in the ICU suite had shifted from the quiet fragility of a hospital room to the high-stakes atmosphere of a war room. Word of the FBI’s intelligence update regarding the Widow, the merciless syndicate leader who had financed Alice Florence’s campaign of terror, had traveled quickly up to the fourth floor. Outside the suite, heavily armed Spanish law enforcement officers maintained a strict perimeter, but inside, a different kind of storm was brewing. Rex Hidalgo, barely forty-eight hours removed from a flatline event on the operating table, was sitting up on the edge of his bed. His face was drawn, pale as chalk, and his dark eyes burned with a feverish, dangerous intensity. A wide array of IV lines had been hastily disconnected by his own hands, leaving small drops of blood blooming on his forearm. He was struggling into a dark, high-collar tactical jacket, his breath coming in shallow, agonizing