His Last Command Came Back to Kill Him novel Chapter 14

"You're in this much pain, you have to go," Chisholm said, his voice thick with concern.

Whitley closed her eyes, her tone terrifyingly weak. "It's just that time of the month. Cramps."

Chisholm hesitated, but eventually ordered the driver to turn the car around.

The painkillers slowly began to kick in, but they only managed to dull the sharp, stabbing agony into a heavy, suffocating ache that wrapped around every bone in her body.

Whitley turned her head slightly, offering Chisholm a faint, "Thank you."

"You need to start taking better care of yourself. You were never like this before," he said, his chest tight watching her stubbornly hold herself together. "Do you want me to give you a few days off?"

Whitley shook her head slightly.

Her time was running out. Every minute, every second mattered. She refused to waste whatever life she had left resting in bed for no reason.

Chisholm knew how unbelievably stubborn she was. Realizing he couldn't convince her, he let out a heavy sigh. "If it gets to be too much, just take a break. Stop trying to shoulder it all yourself."

Whitley nodded weakly, her voice barely a whisper. "I know my own body."

The car fell into a suffocating silence.

Whitley shrunk into the corner of the backseat, curling herself into a tiny ball. The pain kept washing over her in waves, spreading from her chest to her fingertips, freezing her to the bone. She clamped her jaw shut, her lips bloodless, refusing to let even a single whimper escape. It was as if even showing a moment of weakness was a luxury she couldn't afford.

They finally made it to the marital villa.

Whitley pushed the car door open. Her legs were shaky, and she could barely stand.

Chisholm watched her fragile silhouette, his worry gnawing at him. "Do you need me to stay with you? Are you absolutely sure you don't need a hospital?"

Whitley turned back, forcing a faint, shallow smile. The warmth didn't reach her eyes; they were completely hollow.

"I'm sure. I know my own body."

She knew she didn't have much time left. And she knew that in this world, there was no one left who genuinely cared about her pain.

Chisholm finally drove away. Whitley walked inside and immediately collapsed onto the living room sofa, curling up in a ball. She didn't turn on the lights. The house remained pitch black.

She didn't know how much time had passed when the sound of the front door unlocking broke the silence.

Clive was home.

He flicked on the lights and immediately spotted Whitley curled up on the couch. She looked so fragile, reduced to a tiny, defensive shadow.

Clive's eyes darkened. He took off his suit jacket and walked over, crouching down next to the sofa. "Where does it hurt?"

Whitley genuinely hadn't expected him to come home tonight. After all, he usually flew back into the country without a word, and she was always the last to know.

Clive reached out. It wasn't to comfort her or soothe her. He grabbed her almost roughly, intending to haul her off the couch.

"We're going to the hospital."

As his scent enveloped her, Whitley reacted like she had been burned, violently thrashing against him to get away.

Clive stopped. He looked down at her, his eyes heavy and terrifying, radiating the oppressive impatience of a man whose authority had been challenged.

Refusing to go to the hospital.

A second later, his lips parted. "So, faking an illness for sympathy? Or was this just an excuse to throw yourself at Vance?"

Whitley stared at him, her entire body shaking. Her heart twisted violently in her chest. She was literally dying, and this was what he thought of her.

These three years of marriage were an absolute joke.

She raised her hand.

*Slap!*

Her palm cracked viciously across his face.