Reborn Heiress: Escaping My Contract Marriage with the Cold CEO
Chapter 31: Technically Right But Annoyingly So

Chapter 31: Technically Right But Annoyingly So

VANESSA BELMONT

The moment Malone said they’d found Mr. Haynes, the room did that fun little tilt-and-spin thing that made me question whether I’d accidentally ingested hallucinogens. Or maybe it was just the blood loss. Hard to say.

"Where is Haynes?" asked Nathan.

"Jang Memorial."

I blinked. "Wait. Jang Memorial? As in, the one with the overpriced lattes in the lobby and the doctors who charge you just for breathing the same air as them?"

"My family owns three hospitals," said Nathan. "This one is closest to the accident site."

Nathan’s gaze flicked to the bloodstain on my shirt—now a fashion statement and a medical concern. What can I say? I’m a multi-tasker.

"You need a doctor," said Nathan.

"Great. Then we’re already on the same page, because Haynes is at a hospital where there are... guess what? Doctors." I gestured vaguely toward the door. "Let’s go."

Nathan exhaled through his nose, the way he always did when I was technically right but annoyingly so. "Malone, the car."

"Yes, sir."

I attempted to stand. My legs buckled the second I put weight on them. The room lurched sideways, and for a half-second, gravity almost won.

Nathan caught me before I face-planted into an actual, and sad-looking, potted plant. (It would’ve been a mercy killing. That thing was not thriving.)

His arm hooked around my waist, yanking me upright with ease. "I’ve got you," he said softly, his breath warm against my temple. He scooped me into his arms and headed toward the door.

"Sorry, Prince Charming. I think I got blood on your designer shirt."

"I can buy more shirts."

"You can buy more everything," I muttered. "Including small countries."

Nathan carried me as if I were something precious. The crisp evening air danced across my skin, but all I could feel was the warmth radiating from him, the steady beat of his heart against my side.

Malone held open the car door, the interior lights casting a soft glow over the plush seats. Nathan lowered me gently inside, his touch lingering for just a moment too long before he carefully reached across me to fasten the seatbelt. As he pulled away, our eyes met, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just us—to the unspoken possibilities of a real marriage, a real relationship.

On the car ride to Jang Memorial, city lights streaked past the windows like smeared neon. Every pothole sent a fresh jolt of pain through my ribs, and I couldn’t hold back my ouchie-ouch groaning.

"We’ll be there soon." Nathan took my hand and squeezed, his grip tight, as if trying to press his own strength into me.

When we arrived at the hospital, Nathan scooped me up before my feet could even touch the pavement, his arms secure around me.

He bypassed the main entrance entirely. We entered the VIP wing—which was only for Jang family members. The second we stepped inside, white-coated professionals poured into the hall.

The sterile brightness of the hallway made me feel exposed, especially with so many doctors and nurses swarming around us. "Nate, put me down.

"No."

The word was absolute, leaving no room for argument.

A doctor stepped forward, clipboard in hand. "Mr. Jang, we’ll take it from here—"

Nathan cut him off with a single glance. "No," he said again. He clutched me tighter as if someone might try to take me away from him. I didn’t think there was single person present with the kind of courage it would take to deprive Nathan Jang of what--and who--he wanted.

The staff exchanged uneasy looks but didn’t challenge him. Instead, they ushered us down the hall, their shoes squeaking against the polished floors. They led us to an examination room.

"Mr. Jang," the lead doctor said, nodding at Nathan before looking at me. "And Mrs. Jang. What’s going on, sir? How can we help?"

I scowled. "I’m not Mrs. Jang. Also, I’m a wuss when it comes to needles, pain, and sharp objects."

"Are you sure you don’t want to be Mrs. Jang?" asked Nathan in a low voice. "I can always send the bill to Vanessa Belmont."

"I’m definitely Mrs. Jang," I told the doctor.

The man cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should focus on your injuries?"

"Fine. But if you try to upsell me an IV of organic kale juice or whatever, I’m leaving."

Nathan rolled his eyes. "She’s lost blood. Ignore her."

"Excuse me, I’m right here and still fully capable of being a pain in your ass."

Nathan carefully placed me on the exam table, his hands lingering just a second too long—as if he was afraid I’d crumble the moment he let go. The paper sheet crinkled under me, and the too-bright overhead lights made my head throb.

"Mrs. Jang," the doctor began, his voice smooth with practiced calm, "if you could just lie down—"

"What’s the update on Carver Haynes?" I demanded, cutting him off. My fingers dug into the edge of the table, the pain in my ribs nothing compared to the gnawing dread in my gut.

"Forget Haynes," he said. "Focus on you."

My pulse was a wild, uneven drumbeat in my throat. What if Carver was—

No. I wouldn’t even let myself finish that thought.

"Haynes is in critical condition," the doctor said, his tone carefully neutral. "Gunshot wound to the abdomen."

The words hit me like a physical blow. The room tilted, the antiseptic smell suddenly too strong, too suffocating. Critical. Gunshot. Abdomen.

"How critical?" My voice came out thin, brittle.

The doctor hesitated—just a fraction of a second, but it was enough to make my stomach drop. "He’s in surgery now," she said. "We’ll know more soon."

Soon. That word was a torture all its own. Soon could mean anything. Soon could mean too late.

I looked at Nathan. My lower lip trembled.

"Are you going to cry?" Nathan’s expression turned to panic. Then he pointed at me and said, "Sedate her."

The doctor chuckled nervously. "I think rest and fluids will suffice." He lifted my shirt and examined the wound. "Oh, and you’ll need stitches."

I grabbed the doctor’s sleeve. "You heard the man. Sedate me."

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