Chapter 3
From downstairs, the faint murmurs of Julian comforting Sophie mingled with the hurried footsteps of the family doctor.
No one knew that in the master bedroom, life was ebbing away with the warm flow of blood. The night was thick as ink, veiling the tragedy unfolding in silence.
Then, the shriek of an ambulance shattered the stillness of Preston Manor. Red and blue lights swirled frantically, illuminating half the courtyard. Servants scrambled in chaos; Gemma collapsed on the sofa clutching her heart, while Matthew roared into his phone, barking orders at the hospital.
And there stood Julian, in his dressing gown. His brow furrowed as he watched the lifeless figure being carried down the stairs on a stretcher.
Emily's face was paler than the white sheet covering her, her fingers hanging limp. Her wrist was still smeared with dried blood.
She looked so fragile and small, as if she might simply evaporate into the air.
"How did it come to this?" Julian asked, his voice carrying a hint of annoyance, though it was unclear if he was frustrated by the chaos or by Emily, who had caused it.
A servant whispered through tears, "Mrs. Preston lost so much blood. It was everywhere. On the bed and on the floor..."
Julian's gaze shifted from the stretcher to Emily's lifeless fingers.
Those hands had once tied his ties with precision and brushed the hair from his forehead with tenderness.
A sharp prick of pain hit his heart, like a needle, but it vanished as quickly as it had arrived.
Sophie leaned into him, gripping his arm with cold fingers. "Julian, I'm scared," she whimpered, burying her face in his arm. "Do you think Ms. Carter will be okay? Will our baby be traumatized by this?"
"Don't overthink it," Julian said, pulling her close and regaining his composure. "The doctor said you were just shaken and the baby is fine. I'll take you back to the room. It's too chaotic out here."
He guided Sophie away, moving in the opposite direction of the ambulance. He didn't look back. It was as if the woman being dragged toward the abyss by death had nothing to do with him.
The red light above the operating room stayed on all night. Gemma and Matthew stood guard outside the doors, aging a decade in a single night.
Julian never showed up. He stayed in the guest room with the "traumatized" Sophie, holding her hand until she fell asleep.
As he stood by the window watching the deep night, a tiny seed of unease began to spread through him.
It was the small hours of the morning when the theater doors finally parted. The doctor emerged, and his eyes were mapped with red veins above his surgical mask. Without a word, he shook his head in solemn defeat.
"I am so sorry. We did everything we could, but we couldn't save the baby. And the mother..." he announced and hesitated for a heartbeat. "Due to extreme blood loss and subsequent organ failure, we lost her, too. My heart goes out to your family."
Gemma fainted on the spot, and Matthew leaned against the wall, tears streaming down his face.
The news reached the manor just as dawn was breaking. Julian was in the dining room, carefully handing a glass of warm milk to Sophie.
The butler's voice trembled as he delivered the news, his eyes brimming with tears. When he finished, the dining room fell into a deathly silence.
A silver spoon clattered onto the marble floor, the sharp sound echoing through the room. Julian stood frozen, as if he couldn't comprehend the words. "Who wasn't saved?" he asked softly, his voice carrying a hollow echo.
"Ms. Carter," the butler sobbed. "And the baby in her womb."
Julian felt a roar in his ears, and the world around him went mute. He saw the butler's lips moving, saw Sophie stand up in alarm to grab his hand, and saw the servants wiping away tears. But he heard nothing.
Only one scene replayed in his head: Emily's final glance. It wasn't filled with malice or bitterness. Instead, it held a weary, hollow blankness.
She looked at him as if he were a complete stranger, or as if her gaze had passed through him entirely, fixed on some invisible horizon.
Sophie shook his arm violently. "Julian? Julian Preston."
Julian snapped back to reality and shoved her hand away with such force that she stumbled. Without a word, he bolted out of the room, oblivious to the fact that his robe had come undone.
The hospital corridor smelled of disinfectant, clinical and bitter. The doors to the morgue slid open, releasing a wave of frigid air. A nurse pushed out a gurney, a white sheet concealing the form beneath.
"Mr. Preston, I am so sorry. We have prepared the body, but..." The nurse hesitated before gently lifting a corner of the sheet.
Emily lay there in perfect silence. Her eyes were closed, her long lashes casting soft shadows on her pale cheeks.
A faint, ashen violet tinged her lips, where a tender smile used to linger. Now, they were utterly still.
Her hair had been simply tidied, yet some wet locks remained plastered to her brow. She appeared so tranquil, as if in a deep slumber, ready to wake up in the next second and whisper "Julian" just like she used to.
Julian stopped breathing. He drifted toward her with ghost-like steps, as if the ground beneath him had turned to cotton. His hand extended, fingers shaking uncontrollably.
He craved the touch of her cheek, yet the second before his skin met hers, he recoiled in terror, his hand recoiling as if burned.
This wasn't his Emily.
His Emily was full of life. Her face flushed with warmth, her eyes shimmering with joy. She was the woman who would huff in frustration and burrow against his chest, murmuring about the chill.
She wasn't this ice-cold, rigid, lifeless thing.