Semua Bab Too Late to Win Back The Ex-Wife: Bab 31 - Bab 40

Claire's POV:Isabella's face paled. No one dared to speak now, but the weight of their judgment was a physical pressure in the air. She closed her eyes, summoning fresh tears. "What kind of mother cares more about prosecuting the woman her child loves than about his well-being? You're heartless, Claire. Ben, darling, don't worry. Your mother won't take you to the doctor, but I will."I turned to the headmaster, my voice clipped. "Where is the school nurse? It's been over ten minutes since the incident. She should have been the first person here.""I'm here!" A woman in scrubs pushed through, looking flustered. "I attempted an initial assessment, but Miss Hartley insisted no one else touch him, that she was taking him to the hospital immediately. I was told to stand back."My gaze turned to ice. "Is that your version of concern, Isabella? Denying him immediate medical evaluation? The nearest hospital is a fifteen-minute drive, longer with traffic. Are you trying to help him, or are yo

Claire's POV:The headmaster's nervous apologies followed us out. I clutched the bundle of dry school sweats he'd pushed into my hands—a practical kindness that felt more like containment. The quicker I left, the sooner the scandal would fade for everyone else.Leo's hand was a small, warm anchor in mine as we stepped outside. The adrenaline was gone, leaving behind a hollow, tired ache.Then I saw the car. Carter Thorne's sedan, parked at the curb. My first, weary thought was pure professional dread. *What now?*The window slid down as we approached. "Get in," he said, before I could even speak. "I'll take you home."I stared, my brain sluggishly processing. "Why?"He was silent for a moment, as if the question was illogical. "The event carried my foundation's name. You faced… complications because of it. A ride home is a minimal corrective measure."It was such a cold, transactional explanation. And yet, Leo was already tugging my hand. "Can we, Mom? Please?"Lin was out and holding

Isabella's POV:A rough shake yanked me from a dream of a Vanity Fair cover."Miss! *Miss!*"I ripped off the mask. A nurse loomed over me, her face tight with a fury she wasn't paid enough to contain. "Are you this child's guardian?""Yes, what?" I snapped, my skull throbbing."His fever spiked to 104.5. We've been paging you for ten minutes! He's having a febrile seizure! Where have you *been*?"I looked past her. Ben was trembling violently, his small body rigid, his eyes rolled back. A monitor shrieked an alien, rhythmic alarm.The cold that hit me had nothing to do with the hospital air. This was a catastrophe.A flurry of activity followed—cold compresses, a shot of something, worried murmurs about "strep" and "possible secondary infection." Finally, the doctor returned, her demeanor graver. "The cultures indicate a severe streptococcal infection, likely complicated by the aspiration. We're adding a strong intravenous antibiotic. He'll need close monitoring."An antibiotic. More

Claire's POV:The phone buzzed on the coffee table, cutting through the easy quiet that had settled after Carter and Lin left. Nathan's name glowed on the screen. Claire picked it up and walked to the kitchen window."Yes?""Ben's in the hospital. High fever. He's asking for you." Nathan's voice was tight, stripped of its usual polish.Claire listened, her gaze fixed on the fire escape across the alley. The images came, clear and sharp: Ben's accusing finger, his choice in the café, his voice wishing her gone. The tangled mess at the police station.When he was done, she let out a short breath. "You always said watching a child was straightforward. I'm sure you and Isabella have it handled.""Claire, he's sick. He needs his mother."*His mother.* The title, coming from him now, felt like a cheap tool. It sparked a specific, ugly memory. Ben, three years old, burning up with a fever that wouldn't break, crying for her through a long night. Nathan's assessment the next morning, cool and

Nathon's POV:The hospital room was a cage. Every beep of the monitor, every rustle of Isabella's silk blouse grated on my nerves. She lingered by the window, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue—a perfect portrait of concerned devotion. My stomach burned, a raw reminder of last night's whiskey-fueled stupidity. Ben was down the hall, admitted for a severe flu. And I was here, laid low by my own weakness.The door creaked open. Ben shuffled in, small and pale in his hospital gown. He'd been begging to see me. But instead of going to Isabella, who cooed his name, he froze. A flicker of… fear? …crossed his face before he hurried to my bedside.He didn't ask how I felt. He was a vortex of his own misery. He thrust out his hands. The backs were a mess of mottled purple and yellow bruises. One was swollen taut, the skin shiny."Daddy, no more IVs. It hurts. Can I have the special tea instead?"A memory sliced through the fog of my irritation. Ben hated needles as a toddler. Claire found a ret