Chapter 89
Half an hour later, the commotion outside seemed to have died down. The sound of a car starting pierced the still night, and within a few minutes, Ashton stumbled into the house. His disheveled state was immediately apparent.
I had eaten my fill, and though I felt a bit bloated, there was also the nagging feeling that my belly had grown a lot bigger lately. I made a mental note to go to the hospital tomorrow for a check-up.
Mrs. Eriksen, who had been quietly cleaning the kitchen while keeping an eye on the commotion outside, gasped as Ashton entered. “Oh my! Look at the state you’re in!” She hurried over to check on him.
I, on the other hand, was sitting on the sofa, still feeling the weight of the meal in my stomach. I glanced up at Ashton and saw that his once handsome face was now swollen, with a streak of blood at the corner of his mouth. Despite his battered appearance, he still stood tall, an air of defiance and triumph radiating from him.
Mrs. Eriksen rushed to find the first-aid kit, but I merely glanced at Ashton before turning to the older lady. “It’s getting late. I’m going to rest now,” I said, my tone matter-of-fact.
Mrs. Eriksen looked at me, clearly shocked by my indifference, but she didn’t say anything. Avoiding Ashton’s intense gaze, I made my way upstairs.
I knew I was being cruel by acting coldly, but life had taught me that the more I took the initiative to care, the more I would be taken for granted. Just like the things I kept hidden from him, he too had many secrets, some of which I had no intention of uncovering.
When I came out of the bathroom, Ashton was standing on the balcony, smoking. His tall, slender figure appeared forlorn, the smoke curling around him like a shadow.
I averted my gaze and sat down at my dressing table to begin my nightly skincare routine.
After what felt like hours, Ashton came back inside. He shot a quick glance at me before stepping into the bathroom. The silence between us felt heavy.
I quickly dried my hair and went to bed, the weight of exhaustion dragging me into slumber almost immediately. I suppose we were having another cold war.
The quiet of the summer night in J City was deafening, the sounds of insects and animals in the yard echoing through the villa. The moonlight streamed through the windows, casting a pale glow on the stillness of our bedroom.
I tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable position, but something felt off. Then, a pair of large hands suddenly pressed down on me, jolting me awake. I turned to see Ashton, his face close to mine, trying to force himself on me.
I squinted at him, groggy from sleep. “If I don’t even bother to respond to you when I’m awake, what makes you think I will when I’m in deep sleep?”
He stiffened, his expression darkening. “Are you taking your revenge on me?”
I closed my eyes, still feeling the pull of sleep. “Not in the mood to talk.”
“Hmph,” he sneered. “Seems like I’ll have to try harder then.”
I frowned, feeling the familiar bitterness rise within me. Behind his polished exterior and good looks, he was nothing but a despicable scum.
I bit my lip and endured his forceful thrusts, my silence the only response.
“Didn’t you say you wouldn’t respond to me?” he taunted, thinking that my lack of resistance meant I was finally giving in. “I guess what you said earlier was just an excuse, huh?”
I continued to stay silent, letting him have his way with me, my thoughts far away.
After what felt like an eternity, he finally stopped. He turned on the bedside lamp and prepared to carry me into the bathroom as usual.
But when he turned to look at me, his face contorted in horror. His hand, which had been resting on my lower abdomen, tightened suddenly.
He stared at me in panic, his voice hoarse. “Why didn’t you yell?”
I didn’t answer, and my mind was hazy with pain. The discomfort in my lower abdomen was sharp and unrelenting, and the blood that flowed from me was an unmistakable sign that the child inside me might be gone.
Strangely, though, the pain I felt wasn’t physical—it was a crushing, suffocating ache that seemed to come from deep within my chest. It was a pain that made it hard to breathe.
Bam! Ashton lost his balance as he tried to get off the bed and collided with the chaise lounge.
I said nothing, watching him with an unsettling calmness.
His hands trembled as he grabbed his phone, and it took him several tries before he could call someone.
When the call connected, his voice was frantic, “She’s bleeding heavily! It’s really serious! I need an ambulance right now!”
After hanging up, he rushed to the bathroom, came back with a towel in hand, and tried to stop the bleeding, but it wouldn’t stop. The blood just kept coming.
I watched him in silence, feeling strangely detached. My vision began to blur, the pain in my body fading into the background as I focused on his expression. His face was a mixture of panic, helplessness, and fear. Oddly enough, I felt a twisted sense of amusement at the sight.
He had brought this upon himself.
Ashton never looked at me, his desperation mounting as he realized he couldn’t stop the bleeding. He went to my closet, found a set of clothes, and hurriedly put them on me.
His hands were shaking as he lifted me from the bed. I could feel his concern, his trembling hands betraying his disturbed state.
The sound of sirens soon reached my ears, signaling that the ambulance had arrived. Moments later, paramedics rushed into the villa, carrying a stretcher. Ashton tucked me in, his eyes full of conflicting emotions.
I refused to look at him again, closing my eyes as they wheeled me out.
The journey to the hospital felt like a blur. I was aware, but detached from everything. I knew that whether or not the child could be saved, it wouldn’t change the irreparable rift between Ashton and me.
The doctor at the operating table spoke gently to me, “If you feel sleepy, just close your eyes and rest. We’ll do everything we can to save the child. Don’t worry.”
I nodded, but even after two hours, I couldn’t sleep. I was still wide awake when I was pushed out of the operating room.
Standing by the door, Ashton’s pale face looked like he had aged years in those few hours.
He turned to the doctor, his voice shaky. “Is everything okay?”
The doctor nodded, offering a reassuring smile. “It’s a good thing she was brought here in time. Both she and the child are fine. But Mr. Fuller, you need to be more cautious in the future. Your wife has polycystic ovary syndrome, so the chances of conceiving are slim. Please take extra care of both her and the baby.”
Ashton’s face remained pale, and he looked back at me, his expression filled with guilt and relief.