The Abandoned Wife's Cold Revenge

The heavy fog of anesthesia began to lift. Emaline opened her eyes. She was no longer in the chaotic ER. The room was quiet, smelling of strong bleach and expensive lilies. A VIP suite. The massive mobilization of resources Daxton had orchestrated had done its job. He had ruthlessly strong-armed the hospital's board of directors, threatening to liquidate their funding until they unlocked their absolute last emergency reserve of AB-negative blood. Her veins felt like they were pumping liquid ice, but she was alive. Emaline looked down at her right hand. A thick IV needle was taped to her skin, dripping clear fluids into her bloodstream. She reached over and ripped the needle out of her vein. A sharp sting bit her skin. Dark red blood immediately welled up, dripping down her knuckles and staining the pristine white hospital sheets in bright, violent drops. Clara rushed into the room, her eyes wide with panic. "Emaline! What are you doing? You just got out of shock!" Emaline ignored her. She threw her legs over the edge of the bed. Her right foot hit the floor. Her left leg-encased in a heavy, titanium prosthetic-followed. The socket dug painfully into her swollen residual limb. She grabbed the edge of the nightstand, her knuckles turning white as she forced herself to stand. Her entire body shook with weakness, but the cold, hard fury in her chest kept her upright. She dragged her heavy left leg forward, leaning her shoulder against the wall for support. She limped out of the VIP room and into the quiet, carpeted hallway. As she turned the corner, she stopped dead. Clayton was walking toward her. He had just returned from the Upper East Side, likely to handle the PR fallout of his wife dying in a hospital. His suit was perfectly pressed. Not a single hair was out of place. He stopped. His slate-gray eyes locked onto Emaline. For a fraction of a second, his pupils dilated. A flash of genuine shock crossed his perfect features. He hadn't expected her to be breathing, let alone standing. Emaline's face was the color of chalk. Her hospital gown hung off her frail frame. She stared at the man she had loved for years, the man who had just condemned her to death. There was no love left. Only a deep, rotting hatred. Clayton quickly masked his shock with a cruel, mocking smirk. "You have nine lives," Clayton sneered, his voice echoing in the empty corridor. "It seems even hell doesn't want a woman with a heart as toxic as yours." Emaline didn't say a word. She pushed off the wall. She channeled every ounce of strength from her core into her right arm. She swung her hand back and slapped him across the face. The sharp, cracking sound of flesh hitting flesh exploded in the quiet hallway. Clayton's head snapped to the side. A bright red handprint instantly bloomed across his pale, aristocratic cheek. Behind him, Leo gasped, taking a sudden step forward. Clayton raised a single hand, stopping his assistant. He slowly turned his head back to face Emaline. The temperature in the hallway seemed to drop ten degrees. His eyes were no longer cold; they were pitch-black, burning with a lethal, venomous rage. "Are you disappointed?" Emaline laughed, a harsh, grating sound that scraped her dry throat. "Are you sad you didn't get to zip me up in a body bag? Just like five years ago, when you threw me into that upstate psychiatric asylum to rot?" The word asylum hit Clayton like a physical blow. The veins on his forehead bulged against his skin. It was the ultimate taboo, the ugly stain on the Garrett family's perfect reputation. Clayton lunged. He closed the distance between them in one massive stride. His large, calloused hand clamped around Emaline's slender throat. The sheer force of his momentum threw Emaline backward. Her spine slammed violently against the hard hospital wall. A faint, muffled shift echoed from beneath the wide leg of her hospital pants as the silicone liner of her prosthetic was knocked loose, but the sound was completely swallowed by the sudden, deafening crash of a medical cart being dropped by a clumsy intern down the hall. Clayton didn't hear it. He pressed her flush against the wall, his long fingers tightening around her windpipe. He squeezed, cutting off her oxygen completely. Real, unfiltered murder flashed in his eyes. Emaline's face flushed a deep, mottled red. Her lungs screamed for air. She brought both hands up, her fingernails digging desperately into the thick fabric of his suit sleeves, scratching at his forearms. Clayton leaned in, his face inches from hers. His breath was hot against her cheek. "This is what you owe the Garrett family," Clayton hissed through his teeth. "This is what you owe Crista. Every breath you take is a sin." Black spots danced in Emaline's vision. She was suffocating. But as she stared into his furious eyes, an inexplicable, violent wave of panic forced its way into her chest. A suffocating sense of déjà vu, a phantom heartache tied to a dark, forgotten trauma she couldn't name, gripped her soul. She couldn't picture the warehouse, she couldn't remember the blood, but her body reacted to a ghost she didn't know she was mourning. She stared at the man choking her. He looked exactly like the man who died for her, but he was a monster. Emaline forced her lips into a gruesome, breathless smile. "You're just... a pathetic coward," she choked out, her voice a broken rasp. "Driven by... guilt." The words acted like a physical electric shock. Clayton's entire body jerked. The muscles in his arm trembled, and his grip on her throat loosened by a fraction of an inch. The accusation pierced straight through his chest, hitting the deepest, most agonizing secret he carried. Down the hall, the squeak of rubber shoes and the rattle of a medical cart broke the silence. A nurse was doing rounds. Clayton snatched his hand back as if Emaline's skin had burned him. He pulled a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket and aggressively wiped his fingers, looking at her with absolute disgust. Without his physical support, Emaline collapsed. She slid down the wall, hitting the floor hard. She grabbed her bruised throat, coughing violently as she sucked greedy lungfuls of air into her burning chest. Clayton stood over her, looking down at her pathetic state. "Have your lawyer draw up the divorce papers," Clayton ordered, his voice devoid of any human emotion. "You are leaving with nothing. Not a single cent." Emaline stopped coughing. She tilted her head up. Her eyes were bloodshot, but they burned with a terrifying, unyielding fire. "If you want me to leave with nothing," Emaline whispered, her voice raw and steady. "You are going to have to kill me first." Clayton scoffed. He didn't waste another breath on her. He turned on his heel and walked away, Leo trailing closely behind him. Emaline watched his broad shoulders disappear around the corner. The adrenaline began to fade, and the physical reality of her body crashed down on her. The impact against the wall had completely dislodged her prosthetic. The hard carbon-fiber socket was now grinding directly against her raw, sensitive skin. The pain was blinding. She placed her hands flat on the floor, trying to push herself up. She shifted her weight to her left side. The leg gave out completely. Emaline closed her eyes, bracing for the brutal impact of her face smashing into the hard linoleum floor.