Chapter 4
973words
I wasn't in darkness but in a blindingly bright, sterile VIP hospital room. White walls, white sheets, white ceiling.
The silence was deafening.
My first sensation wasn't grief but a hollow emptiness.
My abdomen no longer cramped with pain. It lay flat, as if nothing had ever happened there.
But that tiny life—that heartbeat I never even got to feel—was truly gone.
Dead alongside it was the foolish, naive Fiona Lancaster who believed love could conquer all.
I lay still, tearless.
I'd expected to drown in tears, to feel my heart shatter into a million pieces.
But I didn't.
When your heart is completely crushed and you're abandoned on cold pavement while bleeding out your child's life, all that remains is ashes and frost.
The hospital room door remained closed.
Silas never came.
Of course he wouldn't.
He was surely standing vigil outside the ICU, playing the devoted "husband" to that poor "amnesiac" woman.
With his own hands, he'd shoved me into that marble edge. With his own decision, he'd abandoned me on the sidewalk. With his own choice, he'd sacrificed our child to play "husband" to another woman.
My husband, for his "necessary evil," for another woman's amateur theatrics, had killed his own child.
Enough…
From this moment on, I am no longer Fiona Lancaster. I am only Fiona Windsor.
Fighting through the pain, I reached for the bedside phone and called the only person I still trusted.
"Oliver… it's me." My voice rasped like sandpaper. "I need you. New York Presbyterian, 17th floor, VIP wing. Now."
Oliver Sterling—son of my father's oldest friend and a brilliant surgeon. At my wedding, while others offered congratulations, he whispered, "If you ever regret this, call me."
He arrived in twenty minutes flat.
When he burst in wearing his white coat and saw my ghostly face and the bracelet on my wrist reading "post-acute miscarriage," his usually gentle eyes instantly hardened.
"Did he do this?" Oliver's voice shook with barely contained rage.
"It doesn't matter anymore," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "Oliver, I need your help. Get me out of this hospital. Now."
"Are you insane?" He rushed to check my IV. "You just had surgery! You need—"
"I'm not crazy," I cut him off. "I won't spend another second in this place paid for with his money. I need to leave—leave this hospital, leave New York."
"Fiona, your body—"
"My body?" I laughed hollowly. "My body died hours ago, Oliver. I'm just managing the remains now."
Oliver searched my eyes.
The Fiona who blushed and smiled shyly was gone…
He understood.
He took a deep breath. "Fine. I'll handle it. But you must promise to come with me to a sanatorium in Switzerland until you've fully recovered."
"Agreed."
"What do you want to take with you?"
"Nothing," I said, staring out the window. "Fiona Lancaster married him. I'm just a Windsor now."
I want nothing from him—not a penny, not a jewel, not a thread of compensation.
I want to walk away clean.
Oliver worked efficiently, using his hospital connections to push through the "discharge against medical advice" paperwork.
As I changed into the clean clothes Oliver brought, I pulled my wedding ring from my blood-stained purse.
The massive pigeon-blood ruby diamond ring known as the "Heart of Lancaster."
A year ago, he'd slipped it onto my finger, calling it the symbol of our "contract."
I removed it.
I placed it on the bedside table alongside divorce papers I'd prepared weeks ago, already bearing my signature.
I'd signed only my maiden name: Fiona Windsor.
Oliver wheeled me through the staff exit, bypassing the main entrance.
The New York morning air bit with winter's teeth.
Oliver cranked the heat as we merged into traffic heading toward the airport.
I didn't look back.
…………
(Twelve hours later)
Silas Lancaster finally remembered he had a wife.
After twelve hours playing devoted husband to "amnesiac" Savannah (now in a VIP room right next to where mine had been), he finally dragged his exhausted body to check on me.
He expected to find a sobbing, broken woman desperate for his comfort.
Blinded by revenge and guilt, he'd already prepared his script—promises of compensation, money, jewelry—anything to keep me playing my dutiful wife role.
He pushed open the door.
The room was empty.
The bed was pristine, as if no one had ever occupied it.
Silas frowned, assuming they'd moved me to another room.
Then he spotted what lay on the bedside table.
Divorce papers.
And the glittering "Heart of Lancaster" he'd once placed on my finger.
His pupils contracted to pinpoints.
He snatched up the papers and flipped to the signature page.
Fiona Windsor.
The name struck him like a poisoned blade, piercing through his armor of arrogance and hatred.
"FIONA!"
He roared my name, his voice echoing down the corridor.
How dare she?
How dare this pawn in his revenge game, this "enemy's daughter" he'd purchased with his wealth, leave him of her own accord?
How dare she walk away empty-handed?
Silas's first reaction wasn't grief or loss but the outraged indignation of a man unaccustomed to losing control.
He assumed I was throwing a tantrum.
He believed this was just my strategy to extract more compensation.
He immediately called his security chief: "Find her! Track Fiona Windsor! Check every credit card, flight manifest, and hotel registry! I don't care if she's hiding at the ends of the earth—bring her back to me!"
He remained completely in the dark.
He didn't understand that the woman he sought to retrieve had already 'died.'
He had no idea that what he'd lost wasn't merely a child and a wife.
What he'd lost was his only chance at redemption in this lifetime.
And he had no one to blame but himself.
