Todos los capítulos de The CEO’s Contract Bride: Capítulo 71 - Capítulo 80

ETHAN'S POVI stood alone in the hospital bathroom, staring at my reflection.I looked terrible. Exhausted. Angry. Lost.The folder sat on the counter beside the sink. The genetic report.I had requested it from the doctor after Isabella and I had our confrontation.I read it four times. Every word. Every number. Every clinical detail.Blood type: AB negative. Match confirmed.HLA markers: Six out of six match. Extremely rare.Genetic relationship: Probability of paternity: 99.99 percent.The numbers didn't lie. Couldn't lie.Brahms was my son.I had a five-year-old son.A child I'd never met. Never even knew existed.And the woman who'd kept him from me was right outside this door.I was angry. Completely, fully angry.What I felt was clean and certain. I had been lied to. Kept from my own child for five years. Nothing else complicated that.She had stood in front of me and called herself a victim. Said she'd had every right to keep Brahms away from me.As if her judgment about what

ETHAN’S POVThe nurse found us just outside the ICU.“Monsieur Dexter. Ms. Moretti. We need you both in the consultation room.”Her tone was calm, practiced, but there was urgency underneath it.I stood immediately. Isabella didn't hesitate before following.We walked side by side down the corridor in silence.The consultation room was small. A stack of documents already laid out neatly.Consent forms.The nurse gestured for us to sit.“These are the authorization forms for the bone marrow harvest and transplant,” she said. “We need signatures from both of you before we proceed.”I sat. Isabella lowered herself into the chair beside me, slower, more deliberate.A pen was placed in front of me.“You will be the donor,” the nurse said. “This confirms your consent.”I signed.She turned to Isabella.“And you are consenting for your son to receive the transplant.”Your son.Not hers alone anymore.Isabella picked up the pen, her fingers trembled slightly but she signed anyway.The nurse

ISABELLA’S POV “Ms. Moretti, we need you inside. Now.”I didn’t ask questions. I was already moving before the nurse finished speaking, my heart racing as I followed her into the room.The door opened.At first, everything looked the same, the machines, the tubes, the steady rhythm of monitored breathing.Then I saw his eyes.Open.I stopped for a moment.Brahms was awake.Not fully, but his eyes were open, unfocused at first, then slowly shifting until they found me.“Brahms,” I said, my voice breaking as I moved quickly to his side, careful of the lines attached to him.He looked so small against the white sheets, his skin pale under the hospital lights.“Mama…?”The word was quiet, strained.“I’m here,” I said immediately, reaching for his hand. “I’m right here.”A nurse stepped closer, adjusting a monitor.“We’ve started reducing his sedation,” she explained. “We need him more responsive ahead of the transplant.”I nodded, barely hearing her.My focus stayed on him.He blinked sl

ETHAN’S POV Three days had passed. My body hadn’t caught up with the timeline. Sitting hurts. Standing hurts differently. Every movement demanded calculation I wasn’t used to making.We hadn’t discussed it, but we’d developed a system. She spoke when necessary. I responded when necessary. No lingering. No volunteering. Information passed between us like documents across a conference table—efficiently, without contact. No eye contact beyond necessity. No questions without immediate answers. No acknowledgment beyond the room we occupied.It should have felt comfortable. I had built my professional life on arrangements like this. Clean lines. No excess. Nothing without purpose.Instead, it felt like holding my breath in a room with no exit. Not because of her. Because of what I could no longer categorize.At first, I told myself it was the hospital: the lights, the recycled air, the warped sense of time, too slow, too fast. People noticed everything here. That was my explanation on day

ETHAN’S POV I had been building a case against her for weeks. Twisting it. Revising it. Sharpening every suspicion until it fit cleanly into something I could justify.In the past week alone, I had rewritten it three times.And tonight, I revised it again.She was sitting beside Brahms, holding a spoon in one hand and steadying the tray with the other. The room was quiet except for the low hum of machines and the soft clink of the spoon against the bowl."Encore une cuillère," she said.One more spoon."Non," Brahms said. His face scrunched up. "Mon ventre est plein."No. My tummy is full."Tu dis toujours ça."You always say that."Mais c'est vrai!" he said. "Ça fait mal après."But it's true! It hurts after.She smoothed the blanket near his hand. "D'accord. On fait un marché?"All right. Should we make a deal?His eyes got bigger. "Quel marché?"What deal?"Une cuillère, et après tu choisis le jeu."One spoon, and then you pick the game."N'importe quel jeu?"Any game?She nodded