The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 507

Chapter 249-1

Chapter 249-1

The hand on my wrist feels like a vice forged from steel and ice.

‘Who the f**k is this, and why is she standing so close to me?‘

+25 Pointe

The words echo off the cold white tiles of the room, sharp and jagged, slicing through the air until my lungs collapse under the weight of them. I try to breathe, but my chest refuses to expand.

The room tilts, the green numbers on the heart monitor smearing into streaks of nauseating light.

“Locke…” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. It sounds tiny, weak, pathetic. “Locke, please… it’s me.

It’s Zara.”

His gray eyes don’t soften. If anything, they harden into flint. His jaw flexes, muscles jumping along

his cheekbone beneath the black–and–purple bruising.

He doesn’t know my voice.

He doesn’t recognize my face.

He doesn’t remember my name.

He looks at my tears with the same clinical, detached annoyance a man might reserve for an

uninvited beggar on the street.

“Cobra,” Locke’s voice grates again, lower this time, a dark threat threading through the raspy

baseline. “Get her off me.”

“Locke, man, slow down –” Dad starts, stepping forward, his massive hands raised, his eyes wide with a rare, naked horror. “She’s –”

“I said get her off me!”

Locke violently shoves my arm away. The sudden momentum throws me off balance, my center–of–gravity–shifted body swaying backward. I stumble, my foot catching the edge of the medical trash bin, a quiet gasp escaping my lips as I brace for the impact of the hard floor.

Before I can fall, Mayhem’s large, tattooed arms catch me from behind, scooping under my

armpits with frantic care.

“Easy, Zarabug. I got you, I got you,” Mayhem mutters, his voice tight. “You’re okay.”

Over the quickening beep–beep–beep of the vitals monitor, alarms begin to chime. Locke is sitting bolt upright now, his breathing shallow and rapid, his good hand tearing at the IV line in his skin. The monitor behind his head flashes bright orange – his blood pressure spiking into a dangerous

critical red zone.

“Mayhem!” he roars. “Who the actual hell is she?”

“Out! Everyone out right now!”

A swarm of teal scrubs floods the room. Two neurologists and three trauma nurses push past Cobra, their rubber–soled shoes squeaking wildly against the linoleum.

Hands reach for Locke’s shoulders, pushing him back toward the pillows as he fights them, his muscles straining against them, his cold, furious gaze pinned on my Dad and brother, demanding

answers.

My hands are glued to my belly, pressing hard against the thick wool of my sweater, as if I can physically shield our child from the brutal, invisible blade that’s just severed us from my baby’s

“Locke!” I scream, the sound tearing up from the bottom of my throat. “Locke, look at me! Please, just look at me!”

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