Under the man's cold, watchful gaze, Helena lifted cup after cup and forced the fiery liquid down her throat.
Each swallow felt like swallowing flames. The alcohol burned through her throat, seared her stomach, and tore through her insides like a thousand steel needles. Pain twisted her body until she could no longer stand—she crumpled, clutching her abdomen, trembling.
"Tsk." Laica looked down at her, amusement flickering in her eyes. She bent slightly, lowering her voice so only Helena could hear.
"Helena, I heard someone's been investigating my research paper from three years ago. That was you, right?" Her voice was soft and poisonous.
"Consider tonight a little punishment. After all, we still need you alive to do research for me. Don't forget—Jackson is on my side."
Helena's head jerked toward the corner where Jackson stood. For a fleeting second, their eyes met—then he turned away, expression blank.
A fresh wave of pain tore through her chest. Both her body and heart felt pierced beyond repair.
Laica straightened, then raised her glass high with a dazzling smile. "Everyone! Let's toast to our dear Helena's return!"
The crowd erupted with laughter. One after another, glasses were emptied—wine, whiskey—cold liquid splashed down on her hair, her face, her shoulders. The stinging smell of alcohol filled her lungs, soaking through her thin white dress.
By the end of the "welcome" party, Helena couldn't tell if her face was wet from tears or liquor. Her body felt like it was falling apart. She lay motionless on the cold marble floor, her stomach twisting so violently she thought she might die there.
With the last of her strength, she reached out and clutched Jackson's trouser leg.
"Jackson... take me... to a hospital," she gasped. "It hurts... so much..."
Suddenly Laica screamed. "Ah! My hand!"
People looked. A shard from a broken glass had nicked the back of her hand; a few beads of blood appeared.
Jackson's expression changed instantly. He wrenched Helena's hand away and rushed to Laica's side, lifting her into his arms as though she were made of glass.
"Don't be afraid," he said anxiously. "I'll take you to the hospital right now."
Helena's vision blurred. The pain in her abdomen rolled like black waves, swallowing her whole. Then everything went dark.
When the waiter came to clean later that night, he found her curled in a corner—unconscious, pale, barely breathing.
...
The acrid scent of disinfectant hit her nose.
Helena opened her eyes to a white ceiling.
She was still alive.
But the realization brought no comfort—only a suffocating heaviness pressing down on her chest. A tear slid silently across her cheek, sinking into the pillow and leaving a faint wet stain.
She remembered the days when Jackson would panic over the smallest paper cut on her finger, holding her hand and blowing gently on the wound.
Helena, he once said, even your frown hurts my heart.
Now, she could collapse in agony before him, and he would still turn away—for another woman's shallow scratch.
She was wrong...
So wrong.
She regretted ever loving Jackson Cabrera.
Her stomach still throbbed painfully. She pulled the IV needle from her arm and dragged herself out of bed, one hand pressed to the wall as she searched for a doctor to ask for painkillers.
Halfway down the corridor, a door stood ajar. A familiar voice drifted out.
"Mr. Cabrera, are you sure you want Miss McCarthy to use this special medication?" the doctor asked hesitantly.
"Three years ago, she had a miscarriage in the first month of her imprisonment. Her body's already damaged. This drug will help her stomach temporarily, but the side effects are severe. She might never be able to conceive again."
Boom!
The words detonated inside Helena's mind.
Miscarriage? Child?
Her body trembled violently. She lowered her head, both hands clutching her flat abdomen.
Was there really... a child here?
A child that belonged to her and Jackson?
Fragments of memory flashed before her eyes. During her first month in prison, she'd been wracked with unbearable pain in her lower abdomen, pain so sharp it nearly made her faint. Blood had poured from her body for days, but the prison guards only cast a few indifferent glances.
She had thought it was just her period, worsened by hunger and cold.
But now she understood.
It hadn't been her body failing her.
It had been her child—leaving her in blood and agony, alone in the dark.
And the man who sent her there—the man she once loved—had destroyed not only her life, but their unborn child as well!
Outside the ward, Helena's fingers dug into the wall until her nails tore, leaving streaks of blood and broken paint behind.
Inside, Jackson's calm, detached voice gave the final order.
"It's fine," he said. "Use the medicine."
