His Regret Arrived Three Days Late novel Chapter 142

In the smoking area at the end of the hospital corridor, Conrad leaned against the white railing. When he heard the sounds of heartbroken sobs coming from the room, the hand holding his cigarette paused. He tried to ignore the suffocating feeling her cries stirred in him, but the quiet, suppressed weeping was unmistakable, a testament to the grief she was trying to contain.

Annoyed, Conrad stubbed out the cigarette, tossed it into a bin, and strode toward the room. The moment the door opened, the crying stopped. Annika sat on the bed, her face buried in her hands. Slowly, she lowered her wet fingers, her tear-filled gaze landing on Conrad as he walked in. She froze as the memory of the previous night replayed in her mind: Conrad walking relentlessly toward Yelena, Yelena panicking, her hands slipping, the baby falling… It was a waking nightmare. If it weren't for Conrad, Monroe would still be alive. A storm of hatred, resentment, and pain churned within her, and the look she gave Conrad turned as sharp as a knife.

Sensing the shift in her gaze from shock to pure animosity, Conrad stopped in his tracks. He stood there, watching her, his heart twisting with a silent agony. The hand that longed to pull her into his arms clenched into a fist and disappeared into his pocket.

Lana entered, holding a baby. "Annika, you're awake."

Annika painfully tore her eyes away from Conrad. When she saw the infant in Lana’s arms, her eyes widened. She scrambled out of bed, stumbling as she stared in disbelief at the child. "Who… who is this?" she asked, her lips trembling.

"It's Monroe," Lana said.

Monroe? Annika couldn't believe it. This had to be a dream. It had to be. She took a step back, her face deathly pale. Seeing her disbelief, Lana beamed. "Annika, it's really Monroe! Here, touch his face if you don't believe me."

Annika stepped forward and reached out a trembling hand to touch the baby's cheek. It was warm. The small, perfect nose, the rosy lips, the beautiful little face—who else could it be but her Monroe?

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