His Last Command Came Back to Kill Him novel Chapter 12

Whitley stared at the man standing before her. The man she had once loved with reckless abandon was now using the calmest, most clinical tone to completely obliterate her efforts, her grievances, and her dignity.

Clive was cold, dominant, and fiercely protective of Yelena. Every word he spoke trampled Whitley's pride into the dirt.

Suddenly, she smiled, her eyes turning utterly dead. With just one word from Clive, how could she ever win this fight? Given the state of her failing body, what strength did she even have to fight back? Why waste the effort? She was in agonizing pain, but why would he ever care?

All she wanted now was to spend her limited remaining time making sure her biological parents were financially secure. That was it.

"Clive," she said softly, gripping the armrests as she forced herself to stand. "Remember this. I'm not giving this seat to her."

"I'm throwing it away."

She wasn't just talking about the chair. She was talking about her position as his wife.

She turned and walked away.

Yelena bit her lip, looking up. "Clive, was I too harsh? Whitley seemed furious. She looked terrible."

Clive didn't even spare a glance at Whitley's retreating figure. He just looked down at Yelena. "You've suffered enough. You just need to focus on resting now."

Yelena's lips curved into a triumphant smile. Even Clive knew Whitley owed her. Whitley had enjoyed a life of luxury, stealing her family for all those years. Whatever Whitley had to endure now was just payback.

-

This was the defense venue for the national *Innovation in Pharmacology & Translational Medicine Initiative*. Top-tier researchers, leading hospital directors, and pharmaceutical giants were all in attendance. The front rows were packed with professors and department heads.

Because her seat had been taken, and the back rows were full, Whitley had nowhere to sit. Not wanting to bother Chisholm again, she dry-swallowed a painkiller and stood off to the side. She was holding nothing but a slim laptop—no fancy presentation boards, no entourage.

Before the pitches began, researchers from a neighboring team started whispering.

"Who's that woman? Never seen her before."

"I think she's from Chisholm Vance's lab. Her name is Whitley, just an assistant from what I hear."

"An assistant? Pitching a national-level project? Is she just here to fill a quota?"

"Vance must have sent her to save face. I bet she didn't even write the proposal."

"Let's just watch the trainwreck. You don't just walk into a project of this magnitude."

Whitley kept her eyes lowered, scrolling through her data. She ignored the blatant mockery. Without a high-ranking title or a decorated resume, she was just an underdog riding Chisholm's coattails in their eyes.

Whitley stepped off the stage, her body trembling with exhaustion. The painkillers were barely taking the edge off. The first thing she saw was her husband parading her sister around to build connections. They were surrounded by an admiring crowd. It was equal parts hilarious and sickening.

In their second year of marriage, she had begged Clive to visit her biological parents—the Zimmermans—just once for her birthday. He refused, claiming he didn't have the time. It was as if he was terrified of being tainted by her impoverished roots. Yet here he was, bending over backward for Yelena.

Yelena spotted her. "Whitley, come over here. Let me introduce you to some people."

Whitley almost laughed. She was supposed to piggyback off Yelena to get access to her own husband's network? It was an obvious power play. Yelena was marking her territory, and Whitley had no interest in playing a part in their twisted little romance.

Whitley didn't even blink. She had spent consecutive nights pulling all-nighters, running lab tests, and drafting proposals while enduring relentless gossip. Right now, her head was spinning, and her stomach felt like it was being twisted into knots. She had zero energy left for social warfare. She just wanted to find a quiet corner to collapse.

She turned slightly, taking a step forward. Suddenly, her vision blacked out. The light vanished. The hum of the crowd, the footsteps, the air conditioning—it all faded into a distant echo.

Before her brain could register what was happening, her knees buckled.

*Thud.*

The dull sound of her body hitting the floor echoed sharply in the quiet hall. Whitley collapsed onto the cold tiles, her hair splayed out, her presentation files scattering everywhere. Her pale face pressed against the floor, completely lifeless.

Not too far away, Clive's gaze snapped toward the sound on pure instinct. His eyes locked onto her fallen figure.