The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 508

Chapter 249-2

+25 Points

What the f**k just happened?” Dad growls, his voice a low, terrifying vibration that makes the fluorescent light fixtures above us seem to rattle. “What did they do to him down in that hole?”

I can’t answer him. The words are trapped behind a wall of shrieking, blinding grief:

‘Who the f**k is this?‘

The question loops in my head, over and over, a relentless iron hammer beating against my skull.

He looked at my belly. He looked at the life we created together – and he felt nothing.

No love. No recognition.

Just guarded, paranoid confusion.

Sitting on this freezing floor, staring at the cold white door of Room 412, my mind splits wide open. The contrast is too brutal to bear.

How are the eyes that just looked through me like I was grease on a windowpane supposed to be the same eyes that used to darken with absolute, helpless devotion whenever I walked into a

room?

I know those eyes.

I know the tiny, hidden gold flecks around his pupils that only showed up when the morning sun hit

our pillows.

I know the way his eyelids would flutter heavy when he was deep inside me, his forehead pressed against mine, whispering my name like a prayer he didn’t deserve to speak.

Where did those eyes go? How can a gaze that used to trace every inch of my face with such reverent, terrifying intensity suddenly look so empty? So dead?

And his hands. God, his hands.

The hand that just shoved me away with ruthless, tactical precision – the hand that treated my skin like an enemy force is the same hand that worshipped my body.

I remember those calloused, tattooed fingers mapping every curve of my hips, pulling me flush against his hard chest in the dark.

He loved my body with an appetite that was reverent and fierce.

He loved me on the bed in our home, burying his face in the crook of my neck while the thunder rolled outside. He loved me lifted against the heavy wooden table in the dining room, his mouth

J

Chapter 249-2

+25 Point

trailing fire down my collarbone while his hands held my weight like I was made of spun glass.

He loved me under the hot spray of the shower, water pouring over his ink–covered shoulders as he pressed me back against the tile, his thumb hooked under my chin, lifting my mouth to his and driving deep inside my cunt until I couldn’t remember my own name.

He knew every scar on my skin. He knew everything that made me arch into him.

Now, those hands are cold. Those hands belong to a stranger who thinks I’m a stranger.

To remember the heat of his mouth against my neck, the possession in his grip, the desperate, unyielding way he f****d me against the hallway wall when he couldn’t wait to get to the bedroom…

The flesh is still there. The heavy frame, the tattoos, the wolf eyes, the sharp cut of his scarred jaw under the purple bruising.

The corridor becomes an endless blur of clinical white noise. Every few seconds, a nurse hurries past carrying vials of saline or sedatives, ignoring the giant biker kneeling on the floor next to a sobbing, pregnant woman.

Outside, the rain continues to scratch at the heavy double–paned windows like ghost fingers, completely indifferent to the catastrophe unfolding inside.

“Come on,” Mayhem says softly, pulling me up by my elbows. “Let’s get you back to the waiting room. You can’t stay in the hallway, Zara. Please.”

I let him lead me. I’m a ghost walking through a nightmare, my feet moving mechanically, step by step, down the long, gleaming hallway toward the private family waiting area at the end of the

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