All Chapters of After I Died, He Truly Panicked: Chapter 341 - Chapter 350

Regina’s POVThe white noise of the hospital filled my ears. Monitors beeping, nurses murmuring to each other, the faint squeak of shoes against the linoleum floor.Raymond sat on the edge of the bed, his shirt collar stained dark red, while the doctor bent over his head, stitching the gash that had nearly sent me into a panic when I first saw it.He winced as the needle went in again. “You don’t have to stay here, Ms. Veyron,” he muttered, his voice thick with discomfort.“I’m not going anywhere,” I said quietly.The doctor gave me a sympathetic glance over his mask. “It looks worse than it is,” he assured. “Fortunately, the cut isn’t deep. Head wounds just bleed a lot. He’ll need some rest, maybe a mild painkiller, but he’s going to be fine.”I nodded, my hands still trembling despite his reassurance. I hadn’t realized how hard my heart was pounding until I tried to sit down and felt the tremor in my knees.When the last stitch was done, Raymond sighed and pressed a cloth against th

Regina’s POVThe drive to the Chamberlain estate was quiet, almost oppressively so.The city’s sounds faded behind me as the road was swallowed by trees and long shadows.My phone buzzed once on the passenger seat, another update from Patricia, though I didn’t have the strength to read it.The moment I turned into the gravel driveway, a familiar heaviness settled in my chest. Maxwell’s home had always been impressive, too large, too silent, and today, it felt like a monument to the uncertainty pressing down on both of us.When I stepped out, the air was colder than I expected. Autumn was creeping in early this year.I wrapped my coat tighter and made my way to the front door, my heels crunching over the stones.The caretaker opened the door before I could knock. “He’s in the study,” he said softly, as though even speaking too loudly might break something fragile.“Thank you,” I murmured and stepped inside.The study door was half-open. I could see Maxwell standing by the window, his s

Regina’s POVThe morning of the trial dawned gray and heavy, like the sky itself knew what was waiting for us.Rain hadn’t started yet, but the clouds were swollen and dark, pressing down on the estate like a weight.I stood by the window in my bedroom, fingers tightening around my mug of coffee that had already gone cold.My reflection looked pale against the glass, the faint smudges under my eyes proof of another sleepless night.I wished, God, I wished, things could’ve been different.That Frederick hadn’t lost his memories, that Beatrice was safe, that the world didn’t feel like it was collapsing around us. But the morning didn’t care for wishes. It came anyway, dragging reality along with it.I had spent the last half hour staring at the road through the front gates, waiting for Maxwell’s car.The hum of the house behind me was slow to stir, my mother was in the kitchen, probably trying to get Mia to eat breakfast.I hadn’t told the kids much about what today was, only that I had

Regina’s POVThe courtroom doors shut behind us with a heavy thud that echoed in my chest.For the first time since the morning, I could breathe, but barely. The trial was adjourned. The jury had retreated to deliberate, and all that was left for us to do was wait.But waiting was its own kind of torture.Maxwell sat beside me in the quiet hallway outside the courtroom, elbows resting on his knees, hands locked together so tightly that his knuckles had gone white.Patricia and Jonathan stood a few paces away, speaking in low voices, legal murmurs that blurred into the steady hum of background noise. I couldn’t make out the words, but I didn’t need to. Their tone said everything.They weren’t hopeful.I leaned back against the wooden bench and closed my eyes. The smell of the courthouse, old paper, coffee, and cold air conditioning, felt suddenly too sharp.I kept replaying the morning in my head: the way Morgana wept when Maxwell’s name was spoken, how her lawyer spun their story into

Mr. Harper’s POVThe hospital always smelled of antiseptic and ambition.Every morning, I walked its corridors the same way a king might survey his kingdom, precise, patient, quietly aware that every machine hum, every hurried nurse, every whispered diagnosis existed because of me.Saint Mary’s Private Hospital. The name gleamed in gold letters across the lobby wall, a symbol of two generations of effort, mine and soon, Frederick’s.This place was my life’s work.And I wasn’t about to let anyone, not Maxwell Chamberlain, not Regina Veyron, not any self-righteous lawyer or journalist, put a crack in it.I adjusted my cufflinks as I moved through the cardiac wing, nodding at the staff who straightened as I passed.Their greetings were careful, reverent. I preferred it that way. Respect wasn’t given freely in this world, it was earned through control, through power, through the unwavering certainty that one’s vision mattered more than anyone’s moral compass.When I reached the nurses’ st