His Last Command Came Back to Kill Him novel Chapter 125

Whitley hadn't walked far down the side corridor when her phone buzzed sharply in her pocket.

She didn't want to check it, but the buzzing persisted for two full seconds, feeling almost frantic.

Pulling it out, she saw the name Caleb Nash flash across the screen. Her thumb hovered over the glass before she finally swiped to open the message.

It was a single, aggressive block of text.

[Why did you have to bully Yelena in front of all those people? She's pregnant. Were you really trying to force her to cry just to satisfy yourself? You've completely humiliated the Nash family.]

[Come back and apologize to her right now.]

Staring at the screen, Whitley felt whatever energy she had left drain completely from her body.

The humiliation in the auditorium, the Sherwoods' blatant favoritism, Clive's total lack of trust...

It was already exhausting. Now, her own brother didn't even bother to ask what happened before declaring her guilty, prioritizing Yelena over everything else.

What exactly was she in this so-called family?

A redundant, cold-blooded outsider whose only purpose was to be a stepping stone?

She took a deep breath, an agonizing ache pressing against her chest. Her finger tapped down hard on the screen, instantly blocking Caleb's number without a second thought.

Out of sight, out of mind.

From now on, there was no need to stay in touch with this 'brother' either.

Just as she slipped her phone back into her purse, Chisholm Vance hurried over from behind.

He noted her pale face and the way she decisively put her phone away. Guessing exactly what had happened, his voice was gentle and reassuring.

"It's all cleared up now. No one in the industry will ever accuse you of plagiarism again. Seeing their true colors now isn't necessarily a bad thing."

Whitley nodded slightly. Her voice was hoarse, but completely resolute:

"Yeah. I should have cut them off a long time ago."

Before, she couldn't let go of the years of marriage, couldn't shake the desperate hope of having a real family. Now, peeling back the layers, there was nothing but coldness and blatant bias. Holding onto them was just self-sabotage.

After the summit, she didn't go home. She went straight to the hospital.

The chemotherapy for her late-stage uterine cancer had already been scheduled.

She hadn't told a soul. No one in the Sherwood family knew, and certainly no one in the Nash family knew.

The treatment room smelled sharply of antiseptic. She didn't even flinch when the needle pierced her vein.

But as the medication coursed through her bloodstream, the bone-deep agony, the nausea, the overwhelming fatigue, and the dizzying spells drowned her over and over again.

By the time she forced herself to stand up and walk out of the hospital, her legs felt like jelly. Her face was as white as a sheet, her lips completely devoid of color, and her back was drenched in a cold sweat.

Whitley couldn't hold on much longer. Her body was screaming in pain. All she wanted was to get back to the quiet apartment and collapse into bed.

Clive hadn't been home for a while, and she was grateful for the peace.

But she never expected—

As she turned the key and pushed the door open, the living room lights were blazing. A familiar figure was sitting right on the couch.

She instinctively tightened her grip on her medical files.

Clive.

He was actually home.

Whitley stopped dead in her tracks, freezing in the doorway.

The warm, dim light spilled over him, casting deep, sharp shadows across his face.

He looked up at her, his gaze sweeping over her pale, haggard expression. He frowned slightly, his tone completely unreadable.

"I heard you went to the hospital. What for?"

"You look awful. What's wrong?"

Before she could answer, he stepped forward and snatched the medical papers right out of her hand—