Chapter 4

"Doesn't matter. Giving birth is risky as hell anyway. If kids aren't in the cards, we can adopt—or just savor life as a duo forever."

The surgery got slotted for next Wednesday.

He hated the idea of leaving me solo and pushed to stick around during my hospital stay.

I finally had to lay down the law: handle your work right, and if you can't provide, I'm out.

Only then did he back off, albeit grudgingly, vowing he'd return in five days to tie the knot.

In the middle of the night, I felt someone perch on the edge of my bed.

When I cracked my eyes open, a hazy figure came into view.

"Neil."

I figured Neil hadn't left yet.

"What did you call me?" He seized my hand in a vise grip, his tone edged with quiet irritation.

It was Winford.

I winced in pain.

He let go and switched on the light. "Lizzie, Penelope's pregnant. If I'd delayed even a minute getting her to OB-GYN, she could've miscarried."

In the harsh light, his features were murky, emotions hard to pin down.

Confronted with his demeanor, I dropped my gaze.

I'd given up hoping for anything from him.

But that didn't stop the sharp, relentless twinge in my chest.

With a wry, bitter chuckle, I shot back, "You're her husband—it's your job to shield her. No need to justify it to me."

He wasn't accustomed to this edge from me; his expression soured, and he fixed me with a reproachful stare.

"Since when are you and Neil so chummy?"

I let out a cold laugh. "It's my business. What right do you have to grill me? I need rest—now get out."

Finally, he rose to his feet. "Steer clear of Neil. His motives aren't on the level."

His hypocrisy was almost comical. As if he forgot he'd been the one to introduce us.

Now, after knocking up another woman for months, he dared boss me around as some distant cousin.

"Get the hell out."

I spent three days in the hospital, and once every test came back clean, they discharged me.

To marry Neil, I'd need my ID.

It was at the Campbell family.

When they spotted me returning, Margery sneered, her eyes dripping with disdain. "Knew your backbone wouldn't hold up. It's barely been days, and you're slinking back already. No stepping foot inside unless you bow, beg forgiveness, and promise to pamper Penelope through her postpartum recovery."

Penelope played the gracious card. "We're family—just say sorry, and it's water under the bridge."

Winford eyed my bandaged wound. "Mom, ease up. She got injured yesterday."

His cover story was so half-assed.

I had zero interest in bickering or exposing him. All I wanted was a clean break from this mess forever. I thrust my hand out toward him.

"I'll get my ID and transfer the residency."

Winford's face clouded over. "Why the hell do you need to do that?"

"Since I'm not a Campbell anymore, it only makes sense to pull it out."

Just then, a bunch of people stormed into the Campbell family.

"An eye for an eye—turn her over now!"

"Our old man's life counts too! You lot have no decency."

"Money doesn't make you gods. I tipped off the media—let's air your dirty laundry."

At the chaos, Penelope cowered behind Winford, shrinking back.

She whimpered softly, "I didn't mean to—I was terrified."

It was her: that day at the hospital, in her panic, she'd shoved an elderly man aside to bolt.

Now he was comatose.

The CCTV wasn't crystal clear, but based on the positioning, she and I were the prime suspects for making contact.

As the media barged in, Winford turned his gaze on me. "Lizzie, just say sorry to them. If compensation's what they want—whatever the cost—the Campbell family will cover it for you."

All to protect Penelope.

He had the gall to stand there and lie through his teeth.

My heart didn't ache for him anymore; now, all I felt surging in my chest was pure, seething rage.

The victim's family charged at me in a fury, grabbing fistfuls of my hair—my scalp screaming in pain—as they jammed my face toward the cameras.

"Take a good look: this is the woman who threw the old man under the bus to save her own skin. Being scared out of your wits doesn't justify that."

"Think your cash makes you superior? Keep your filthy money. Apologize to our grandpa."

I writhed in pain. "Let go—it's not me! I didn't shove him!"

They weren't having it. Then it hit me: my injury. I hoisted my hand up.

"I got pushed too—see? I've got this knife wound right here."

They inspected the sutured gash on my arm.