His Last Command Came Back to Kill Him novel Chapter 41

Whitley listened to the man's words in utter silence.

She lowered her eyes, her long lashes concealing the tempest of emotions beneath. The sheer irony of it all was suffocating.

Tell him?

What good would that do?

He hadn't answered her calls. And now, he had the audacity to stand here and ask why she hadn't informed him?

He was putting on a masterpiece of an act. He was only here because he cared about Yelena, urging her to go home and rest so he could play the devoted partner.

His performance was flawless.

He played the deeply responsible husband and the impeccably thoughtful son-in-law to perfection. But behind closed doors, every single thing he did felt like a knife twisting in her heart.

Whitley’s lips parted, but ultimately, she didn't utter a single syllable. She simply averted her gaze, staring blankly at the glowing lights of the ER doors, refusing to even look at him.

She was too exhausted to respond, too drained to argue, and entirely devoid of the energy needed to rip off his hypocritical mask.

Seeing the tension, Lamont and Martha remained quiet. Josiah frowned slightly but chose not to interfere in his sister’s marriage. To anyone watching, it looked as though Whitley was just being stubbornly unreceptive.

Clive didn't seem angered by her cold shoulder.

"Are you tired? Rest for a bit. I'm here."

Those words grated against her ears. They made her sick to her stomach.

He was Yelena's rock. He was a man of immense influence and power in the Capital, someone everyone had to defer to. But the one thing he was not was her husband, her protector, or a member of this family.

He hadn't shown up for Winona, nor had he shown up for her. He was only here for Yelena, the woman who actually held his heart.

His so-called concern was nothing more than condescending charity, a performance to maintain his own polished image. It was a product of his aristocratic upbringing, the deeply ingrained etiquette of the elite.

Every move he made was for himself and for Yelena. Never for her.

The corridor fell into a heavy, suffocating silence.

Time stretched endlessly until, finally, the red light above the ER flicked off.

Whitley shot up, but her legs instantly gave out. Josiah's strong hand caught her arm, steadying her. "It's okay," he murmured. "She pulled through."

She looked up, meeting her brother’s worried gaze, and felt a sudden, sharp sting in her nose.

But before she could process the overwhelming relief, a crisp, cool voice from behind her flattened the emotion—or rather, buried it even deeper.

"I've spoken with the doctors. A VIP suite is being prepared, and there will be round-the-clock private nursing. If you need anything at all, just let Cole know."

Clive stood there in his impeccably tailored dark grey coat, his broad shoulders and narrow waist cutting a striking figure. He possessed an inherently elegant and refined disposition, yet his eyes were devoid of warmth. They were like a layer of unbreakable frost—distant, untouchable, and fiercely aristocratic.