His Last Command Came Back to Kill Him novel Chapter 15

The air in the room felt instantly paralyzed, as if an invisible hand had wrapped around their throats. Even the dust seemed suspended in mid-air, the silence so suffocating it was hard to breathe.

Whitley looked up at him, her face completely drained of emotion.

"If that's what you think, then let's both get what we want. I've already drafted the divorce papers."

Clive lowered his gaze, his eyes sweeping over her face. His expression was as indifferent as if he were staring at an uninteresting piece of furniture.

The ensuing silence lasted for several agonizing seconds. There was no outrage, no desperate questioning—just a dead, stagnant calm.

His eyes casually drifted toward the entryway.

His black diplomatic suitcase was still sitting exactly where he had left it the day he returned from his overseas post.

In the past, whenever Clive came home, Whitley would rush to the door with a bright smile. She would untie his tie and carefully unpack his suitcase, ironing his clothes and putting everything away perfectly. And whenever he flew out for a foreign summit, she would stay up all night packing his bags, filling them with his favorite teas from home and the stomach medications he always needed, terrified he'd be uncomfortable thousands of miles away.

But this time, she hadn't touched it at all.

Clive didn't say a single word. He simply turned around and walked upstairs.

Every heavy footstep echoed against Whitley's chest, but they carried absolutely no emotion from him.

Once he was gone, the rigid tension in Whitley's spine finally snapped. It was as if every ounce of strength had been siphoned from her body. She leaned heavily against the armrest of the sofa, gasping for air as a suffocating, crushing pain threatened to drown her.

With his current status as a formidable diplomat who routinely dominated international negotiation tables, when had anyone ever dared to slap him and demand a divorce to his face?

She had undoubtedly trampled all over his pride.

And yet, he didn't even care enough to demand an explanation.

Whitley's lips twitched into a smile that was infinitely more painful than crying.

A sharp wave of dizziness hit her. Whitley pressed her fingers hard against her temples, rubbing the throbbing pain. The physical agony, mixed with the bone-deep chill in her heart, drained whatever ability she had left to stand.

She slowly pulled out her phone. Her fingers were so cold she fumbled with the screen to unlock it. She scrolled through her contacts and tapped the name "Dr. Casper Thorne."

The call connected.

"Dr. Thorne, it's me."

In a few short sentences, she explained her latest symptoms.

Over the line, Casper's voice was grim. "Whitley, the best option right now is an immediate hysterectomy, followed by chemotherapy. We cannot delay this any longer."

Whitley closed her eyes. She already knew the answer. But hearing it out loud still felt like a knife twisting straight through her chest.