Finley Rhodes POV:
The world was a kaleidoscope of pain and muffled sounds. I was lying down, the soft, sterile sheets a stark contrast to the burning agony in my lower body. Nurses moved in and out of my periphery, their faces grim, their voices hushed. I tried to focus, to understand, but everything was a blur.
Brody was there, standing awkwardly by the bedside, his face pale and drawn. He looked less like the charismatic politician and more like a terrified child. His eyes met mine, and I saw a strange mix of fear and something else I couldn't quite decipher. Guilt? No. Brody didn't do guilt.
He reached for my hand, his touch tentative. I recoiled instinctively, pulling my arm away. The memory of his threats, his cold dismissal, his public humiliation of me, flooded back. How could I have ever loved this man? How could I have let him erase me so completely?
"Finley," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I... I'm so sorry. I didn't know."
Didn't know what? That his words, his actions, had consequences? That I was a human being, not just a pawn in his political game? The anger simmered beneath the surface of my pain, a slow, burning fire.
"What happened?" I managed to croak, my throat dry.
He hesitated, avoiding my gaze. "You... you collapsed. At your parents' house. The doctors are saying it's... it's just stress. And exhaustion." He sounded rehearsed, like he was reciting a carefully crafted press statement.
I swallowed, the lie tasting bitter. I knew it was more than stress. I remembered the gush, the searing pain. He was hiding something. He always did.
"Where's my lawyer?" I asked, my voice weak but firm.
Brody stiffened. "Your lawyer? Finley, you're in no condition to be discussing legal matters. Just rest."
"Jayson," I insisted, pushing myself up slightly. "Where is Jayson Richmond?"
A flicker of annoyance crossed his face. "He's fine. He's at the hospital too, just in a different wing. You really think he's important right now?"
My eyes narrowed. "He's important, Brody. He's my friend. And he's my lawyer."
Brody sighed dramatically. "Look, Finley, I know you're upset. But we need to think about this rationally. Your family is here. They're very concerned. You've caused quite a scare, you know."
"I caused a scare?" I asked, a choked laugh escaping my lips. "Brody, your actions caused this. Your lies. Your cheating."
His face flushed. "Finley, don't talk like that. Not here. Not now. Your parents are just outside. And you know what they expect."
I closed my eyes, a wave of exhaustion washing over me. He was right. My parents. My family. They expected me to maintain appearances, to uphold the family name. The thought of adding more scandal to their plate, especially right before a major election involving their son-in-law, was too much. I had always been the dutiful daughter, the compliant wife. But something fundamental had shifted.
"Why are you so worried about appearances, Brody?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "Isn't it a little late for that?"
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "Listen, Finley. I know things have been difficult. But we can fix this. We can get through this. We have to. For the sake of our future. For the sake of... everything."
I opened my eyes, and for the first time, truly looked into his. There was no genuine concern, no regret. Only calculation. Only fear for his own crumbling image. He wasn't sorry for what he had done to me, only for the mess it might create for him.
"You really don't get it, do you?" I said, a profound weariness settling over me. "You still think this is about you."
He paused, a flicker of genuine bewilderment in his eyes. "Of course it's about us, Finley. It's always been about us. Don't you remember? All our plans? Project Nightingale? Our future?"
My breath hitched. Project Nightingale. The very thing he had stolen from me, the foundation of his ambition. He invoked it now as if it were a shared dream, a testament to our partnership, not a painful reminder of his betrayal.
"Project Nightingale was mine, Brody," I said, the words cutting through the air. "All of it. Every single idea. Every single drawing. Every single word."
His jaw tightened. "Finley, we've been over this. We collaborated. It was a joint effort."
"No," I stated, my voice firm. "It wasn't. And you know it. Just like you know about Gemma. Just like you know about everything."
He flinched, his eyes darting towards the door, as if afraid someone might overhear. "Finley, please. We can talk about this later. When you're feeling better. When you're not so... emotional."
The word grated on my nerves. "Emotional." His favorite weapon.
"No," I said, a sudden, fierce resolve blooming inside me. "We're talking about it now. I want a divorce. And I want you out of my life."
His eyes widened in genuine shock. He reached for my hand again, but this time, I didn't recoil. I let him touch me, his hand feeling cold and foreign against my skin.
"Finley, you can't be serious," he pleaded, his voice cracking slightly. "We... we have so much to lose. Our families. Our reputation. My campaign." He squeezed my hand, a desperate, controlling grip. "And what about the baby?"
The word hit me like a physical blow. The baby. My baby. My hand flew to my abdomen, a sudden, primal terror seizing me.
"What baby?" I whispered, my voice trembling.
He looked away, his gaze fixed on the sterile white wall. "The doctors told me. You're pregnant, Finley. Almost eight weeks."
The world tilted again, but this time, it was a different kind of vertigo. Not pain, but shock. Disbelief. A tiny, fragile hope, immediately crushed by a tidal wave of dread. Pregnant? With his child? After everything?
"No," I said, shaking my head, tears pricking my eyes. "No, that's impossible. I... I took precautions."
"Apparently, they weren't enough," he said, a strange, triumphant look on his face. "See? This is fate, Finley. This is a sign. We're meant to be. We're having a baby. Our baby."
He tightened his grip on my hand, his eyes gleaming with a possessive, manipulative light. "You can't leave me now, Finley. Not with a baby on the way. Think of the scandal. Think of the baby."
My stomach churned, a profound nausea rising from deep within me. He wasn't happy about the baby. He was happy about the leverage. About the new weapon he had found to trap me, to control me, to further his own ambition.
"You're not going anywhere, Finley," he said, his voice laced with triumph. "Not now. Not ever."
