The Villain Who Stole Hearts
Chapter 111: The Sparks Between Two Heroines 2

Chapter 111: The Sparks Between Two Heroines 2

When had Saoirse ever been humiliated like this?

Lyra shook her head. "You’re the one who said your physical condition’s gone downhill, which means you’re not feeling well. Staying here won’t help either of you rest. I’m simply making a reasonable choice under the circumstances."

But for some reason, looking at Saoirse across the room, Lyra felt an unfamiliar sense of discomfort.

She couldn’t help it. Even though Saoirse was speaking to her, she kept casting glances at Veil from the corner of her eye—glances laced with subtle, unspoken meaning. It was like there was something between the two of them, something she couldn’t see but could definitely feel.

And that made Lyra deeply uneasy, as if something important to her was being quietly taken away.

Had it not been for her own frustration, she might never have said those things aloud.

Saoirse scoffed. "I’m not feeling well—so what? What’s it got to do with you? I want to take care of Veil. And need I remind you, this hospital belongs to my family. You’re an outsider—who gave you the audacity to try and kick the owner out?!"

Lyra didn’t back down. "So you’re a rich girl after all? That just makes it worse. All the more reason you shouldn’t be the one looking after Veil. You can’t even take care of yourself."

"I..." Saoirse faltered for a second.

Truth be told, Lyra had hit a sore spot.

When had Saoirse ever taken care of anyone before?

She could stab someone without blinking—three seconds, ten strikes, done.

But caring for someone? That was her soft underbelly.

These past few days, she’d been doing what she could for Veil, but the nurses were the ones handling most of it. She mostly stayed close, watching over him rather than truly caring for him.

Still, even if she was feeling a little guilty, there was no way she’d admit defeat.

Suddenly, she turned with renewed confidence and fixed her cold gaze on Veil.

"Veil, search your heart and decide—who’s leaving, me or her?"

She wanted to see where she stood in Veil’s heart.

Lyra frowned, clearly unhappy. "Miss Saoirse, what exactly are you implying? I merely suggested you needed more rest, and now you’re blowing up and throwing the decision at Veil? Is it because you think he’s recovered enough to handle your drama? Honestly, I was only making a suggestion—but now, your reaction makes me seriously doubt whether you’re even capable of taking care of anyone."

"I’m causing drama? Would I be saying any of this if you hadn’t tried to drive me away?!" Saoirse snapped back, glaring at Veil. "You decide right now! Only one of us is staying—me, or her!"

Even someone as composed as Lyra couldn’t hold back anymore. Her anger shot up like a rocket, and her tone turned cold.

"Since Miss Saoirse insists on putting it that way, then let’s hear your choice, Veil. If you think my presence here is a nuisance, just say the word—I’ll leave without another complaint."

The gunpowder had been stockpiling long enough. Even while lying in a hospital bed, Veil could practically taste the tension in the air.

One wrong word would ignite the fuse, and the fallout could be catastrophic.

The room went still.

Their gazes locked—Saoirse and Lyra—clashing like sparks in a power surge before both of them scoffed and looked away.

Neither would back down. Neither would admit defeat.

And both threw the matchstick into Veil’s hands.

He had expected a conflict like this might arise, but not so soon—and not so explosive.

Choosing one of them would mean favoring one and alienating the other. The balance would collapse. The consequences... he couldn’t afford them.

His mind raced, thoughts spinning into a whirlwind.

Then—an idea.

The Inner Breath Technique!

Damn, how had he forgotten about that?

Caden Voss’s Stillheart Breathing had been top-tier when it came to calming the body or feigning death. And after evolving it through the system, his Inner Breath Technique had become even more effective.

In a situation like this, anything he said would be stepping on a landmine.

So instead of getting blown up... why not gamble?

Who knows—maybe he’d turn this doghouse into a penthouse.

No hesitation.

Veil’s face suddenly turned grim. His calm expression hardened, voice growing sharp and stern.

He snapped.

At both of them.

"You two think this room’s too quiet, huh?! Or are you just assuming I’m healed enough to handle this nonsense? Arguing right in front of my bed—is that fun for you?!"

Cough cough cough—!

A violent coughing fit followed, and Veil clutched his chest, visibly struggling.

Both Saoirse and Lyra instantly stepped forward in alarm.

But Veil raised a hand, his expression harsh and distant.

"Stay back! I don’t want your concern!"

The two women froze where they stood, like children caught misbehaving—completely unsure of what to do.

Veil’s scowl deepened, his chest rising and falling sharply. His eyes reddened with emotion as his voice grew louder, angrier—borderline feral.

"Keep arguing. Go on! Keep yelling if you think I need either of you just to survive! I don’t! Whether you’re here or not, I’ll be just fine. So get out! Both of you—GET OUT!"

His voice thundered through the room.

He was heaving with fury, face flushed red.

Saoirse instinctively wanted to step forward and comfort him, but with Lyra still standing there, she held back.

Lyra hesitated too—Veil’s outburst had shaken her, and for a moment, regret flickered in her eyes. But Saoirse’s constant provocation kept her rooted in opposition.

If she backed down now, wouldn’t that be admitting defeat?

"You want me gone? Fine!" Saoirse growled, her fists clenched. "If you think I’m just getting in the way, I’ll leave! But don’t regret it later, Veil!"

She turned on her heel and stormed toward the door, shooting a pointed look at Lyra as she passed.

Lyra caught the glance—it reeked of challenge—and she turned as well, ready to leave.

The two women were clearly at war now. Neither would accept losing.

But just as they reached the doorway, something unexpected happened.

Beep-beep. Beep-beep—

The life monitor in the room suddenly blared to life, a piercing alarm echoing through the room.

Veil’s body began to tremble violently.

Both women froze in shock.

"Doctor! Where’s the doctor?!"

"Someone get the physician now! Veil’s in trouble—go call the attending physician immediately!"

At the door, Saoirse and Lyra screamed for help, yelling at the nearest nurse.

Meanwhile, inside the room, Veil intensified the Inner Breath Technique, pushing its effects even further.

Beep-beep! Beep-beep! Beep-beep-beep—

The rhythm of the machine accelerated, beating like the pulse of a nightclub DJ—louder, faster, more chaotic.

And then—

A strangled, gasping sound escaped Veil’s throat.

And silence.

Total, suffocating silence.

No more trembling.

Just the flatline of the life monitor, its sharp tone slicing through the room:

Beeeeeeep—

A single, continuous note. And on the screen, a cold, unwavering line.

Soon, the attending physician of the private hospital arrived with the medical team responsible for Veil’s condition, responding immediately to the urgent call.

After a swift examination, they expertly unlatched the bed’s support fixtures, wheeled the stretcher, and rushed Veil straight toward the emergency room.

Ten minutes passed.

Then twenty.

Then thirty...

The red light above the operating room finally dimmed. The doors swung open, and the doctor stepped out, wiping the sweat from his brow. He pulled off his surgical mask, frowning as he looked toward them.

"Miss Saoirse, how many times do I have to tell you? The patient just regained consciousness. His body is still incredibly weak—he can’t handle that kind of noise, especially not yelling!"

He paused, then his tone rose, sharp and furious.

"Just now—just now! If we’d been even a few minutes later, the oxygen deprivation to his brain would’ve been irreversible. Sure, we might’ve gotten his heart beating again, but he would’ve ended up a vegetable. Brain dead! Do you understand?!"

This hospital did, in fact, belong to the Black Dragon Society.

But not all doctors here were in the loop. Only a handful of senior staff knew the truth behind the institution. To the public, the Black Dragon Society’s reputation was... far from spotless.

And this attending doctor? He was one of those completely unaware. His only concern was the patient’s condition. It never even occurred to him that the woman standing before him—Saoirse—was someone powerful enough to have him packing and fired with a single word.

"I... I didn’t mean to..." Saoirse stammered, stumbling backward until her back hit the stark white tiles. Her face was a mix of dread and remorse. Tears welled in her reddened eyes again.

Asphyxiation?

Brain damage?

If they had been just minutes later... Even if they brought him back, he would’ve been left in a vegetative state?

The doctor’s words felt like a black tide sweeping her backward. The world around her shifted, colors draining—pale white turning to murky gray, then pitch black.

By the time he finished, Saoirse felt like she had fallen into a void so deep and dark, she couldn’t even see her own hand in front of her.

"And you!" the doctor snapped, turning his glare on Lyra. "What’s your excuse? You thought the patient was recovering too well, so you decided to stir up a fight?!"

He scoffed coldly. "If you two are so hell-bent on sabotaging his recovery, then by all means—keep going. Just don’t come blaming this hospital when things go south!"

He stared hard at Lyra, as if trying to comprehend what kind of people would argue so loudly in a patient’s room—especially one hanging on by a thread.

Did they think Veil’s breathing was too labored? So they tried to "free him" from the pain?

Lyra lowered her head, silently accepting the harsh scolding. Regret had already consumed her.

Compared to Saoirse, she was holding together better, not on the verge of a breakdown—but her voice was barely above a whisper when she finally asked, "How is Veil now? Will there be any lasting effects... from what happened?"

If one looked closely, they’d see her tightly clasped hands trembling, her knuckles pale from the pressure. Her arms were shaking. Her shoulders weren’t steady either. Her entire body looked ready to collapse at any moment.

The doctor glanced at her, then let out a sigh.

"He pulled through. Barely. But let me make this clear—if anything like this happens again, don’t bother calling us. Call someone else."

With that, he turned and left without waiting for a response.

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