My Milf Conqueror System novel Chapter 182

Chapter 182: Tis but a scratch

[Jake’s POV]

The Gulfstream touched down at a private airfield in New Jersey just as the sun began to set, casting long, bloody shadows across the tarmac.

I didn’t walk off the plane. I was carried.

The pain suppression protocols that had kept me moving in Switzerland had completely burned out somewhere over the Atlantic. Without Oracle to regulate my nervous system, and with my regenerative skills locked behind the System’s silent firewall, I was forced to experience the raw, unfiltered agony of a high-caliber sniper round tearing through my obliques.

Every breath felt like a serrated knife twisting in my side. The cold air of the tarmac hit my sweat-drenched skin, making me shiver violently, which only sent fresh waves of blinding pain radiating from the wound.

Darius practically carried me down the stairs, his massive arm wrapped around my uninjured shoulder. He moved with a terrifying, mechanical efficiency, his eyes constantly scanning the perimeter for threats. Claire walked a step ahead, her phone pressed to her ear, barking rapid-fire instructions to the medical team waiting for us. Her voice was tight with a panic she was desperately trying to suppress.

We didn’t go to a hospital. When you are fighting a shadow war against a woman who controls the European Central Bank, a public emergency room is just a very well-lit assassination box. Isabella Vane had eyes everywhere, and a hospital bed was a death sentence.

Instead, a pair of armored black SUVs were waiting on the tarmac, their engines idling with a low, menacing growl. We piled into the back of the lead vehicle, and the convoy tore off toward Manhattan, heading straight for the subterranean parking garage of Apex Tower.

"Heart rate is elevated, but his blood pressure is stabilizing," Claire said, her fingers pressed against the pulse point on my neck. She looked exhausted, her clothes still stained with my blood from the flight. The dark circles under her eyes were a stark testament to the toll this war was taking on all of us. "The pressure bandage held. But he needs stitches, antibiotics, and at least a week of bed rest."

"I don’t have a week," I rasped, my head resting against the cool leather of the SUV’s window. Every bump in the road sent a jolt of agony through my abdomen.

"You don’t have a choice," Sofia Aldridge said from the front seat. She didn’t turn around, her eyes fixed on the New York skyline looming in the distance. Her voice was cold, analytical, and absolutely unyielding. "Isabella Vane is bleeding, Jake. But a wounded animal is the most dangerous kind. If you try to fight her in this condition, she will kill you."

I closed my eyes, listening to the hum of the SUV’s tires on the asphalt.

Sofia was right. I could feel the profound, terrifying vulnerability of my own body. For months, I had relied on the System to keep me one step ahead of the reaper. I had used Oracle to dodge bullets, map probabilities, and outmaneuver billionaires. I had relied on the regenerative protocols to heal the damage when I wasn’t fast enough.

Now, the System was silent. The interface was dark. My skills were locked.

I was just a man. A man with four point two billion dollars and an empire of brilliant women, but still just a man made of flesh and bone. And flesh and bone could be broken.

We arrived at Apex Tower twenty minutes later. The subterranean garage had been completely locked down by Vanguard’s remaining loyal security personnel. Men in dark suits with suppressed submachine guns stood at every entrance. A private medical team, heavily vetted and paid an exorbitant sum from the University’s endowment fund, was waiting with a gurney.

They rushed me into a secure, sterilized suite on the forty-second floor. The room had been converted into a state-of-the-art trauma center, complete with surgical lights, heart monitors, and a fully stocked pharmacy.

The next two hours were a blur of blinding surgical lights, the sharp sting of local anesthetics, and the terrifying realization that I could feel every single pull of the surgical needle as the doctor stitched the entry and exit wounds closed. The anesthetic only numbed the surface; deep in the muscle tissue, the agony was absolute.

When the doctor finally stepped back, peeling off his bloody gloves, I was drenched in cold sweat, my hands gripping the steel rails of the bed so hard my knuckles were white.

"The muscle tissue is severely traumatized," the doctor said, looking at Claire and Sofia, who were standing by the door. He was an older man, a former combat surgeon who knew better than to ask questions about how a billionaire CEO had taken a sniper round to the abdomen. "No major organs were hit, but if he tears these stitches, he will hemorrhage. He needs rest. Absolute, uninterrupted rest."

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