Elana Gomez POV:
Dr. Evans's professional mask faltered. Just for a second. His eyes flickered to Ayla, a silent, awkward question passing between them. Ayla's face, already tight with grief, hardened into a mask of pure contempt.
The doctor cleared his throat, his gaze returning to me, carefully avoiding my eyes. “Mr. Thomas has not been here,” he said, his tone meticulously neutral. “His assistant handled all the admission procedures and costs.”
*Has not been here.*
The words didn't just land; they pierced. It wasn't “he came and left.” It wasn't “he was called away on an emergency.” It was a definitive, brutal absence. He was never here. The last, faint spark of hope I didn't even know I was holding died, and the void inside me turned to ice.
Dr. Evans saw the change in my expression. He gave a curt nod and slipped out of the room, the nurse following close behind, leaving a thick, suffocating silence in their wake.
The moment the door clicked shut, Ayla's control shattered. She slammed her fist against the wall, a dull thud that echoed in the quiet room. “Assistant?” she hissed, her voice trembling with rage. “He sent an ASSISTANT? Is he even human?”
As if on cue, a sharp, polite knock sounded at the door.
Before Ayla could say anything, the door opened, and Emilio's chief assistant, Mark, stepped inside. He was impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, his expression as cold and sterile as the hospital room.
He pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up his nose. “Mrs. Thomas,” he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. “I hope you are feeling better. Mr. Thomas is in a very important meeting. He sends his regards.”
Behind him, two men carried in several large, beautifully wrapped gift boxes, placing them on the table by the window. I could see the labels. Premium bird's nest. Wild-caught fish maw. The most expensive, most useless tonics money could buy.
Ayla saw them too. Something inside her snapped. With a cry of pure fury, she launched herself at the table, sweeping the entire collection of expensive apologies onto the floor.
The sound of shattering glass and porcelain was deafening. Thick, syrupy liquids pooled on the pristine floor.
“Get this garbage out of here!” Ayla screamed, pointing a shaking finger at Mark. “You tell Emilio Thomas his wife and his dead child don't need his blood money!”
Mark's composure barely cracked. A flicker of alarm, quickly suppressed. “Ms. Ayla, please calm down,” he said, his tone infuriatingly level. “This will only make things difficult.”
Through it all, I didn't move. I didn't even look at him. My gaze was fixed on the sliver of gray light peeking through the blinds. My heart was a dead thing in my chest. A dead thing feels no anger.
My silence seemed to unnerve Mark more than Ayla's rage. He gave a stiff, formal bow. “I will take my leave.” He and his men retreated, closing the door on the wreckage.
Ayla's anger deflated as quickly as it had erupted, replaced by a wave of concern. She rushed to my side, her voice soft and broken. “Elana, don't be like this… Talk to me, please.”
I slowly turned my head, my eyes meeting hers. There were no tears left. Just a desolate wasteland.
“Ayla,” I said. My voice was quiet, but it held a new, chilling resolve. “Help me get my phone.”
She stared at me, confused.
I met her gaze, and for the first time, a flicker of something sharp and dangerous lit my eyes. “And don't let anyone know.”
