The Officer's Runaway Wife & Secret Son novel Chapter 261

Margot stood rooted to the spot, watching the family of three disappear from her line of sight.

She touched her own face, murmuring in a low, hollow voice.

"I'm the fake-"

For the sake of this slight resemblance, she had racked her brains and suffered endlessly over the past four years.

Yet, Rhys refused to give her even a passing glance. Now that the original had returned, all she received was his "pity."

"I'm not the pitiful one."

Margot tried to laugh, but the sound died in her throat as panic tightened around her chest.

That familiar agony was back. Clutching her chest, she swayed unsteadily, cold sweat instantly beading on her forehead.

Panicked, she lowered her head, her trembling hands fumbling frantically through her bag.

The small medicine bottle was buried deep, hidden beneath lipstick tubes, a compact, and car keys that seemed to conspire against her. The more anxious she got, the more her hands shook, until the contents of her purse spilled all over the floor.

"Miss, are you alright?"

Passersby cast strange looks her way, and the lobby manager, noticing the commotion, stepped forward to help.

"Don't come near me!" Margot shrieked.

The manager, taken aback by her aggression, hesitated, unsure whether to advance or retreat. He eventually spoke into his radio, likely alerting security to keep an eye on the unstable woman.

She crouched on the floor, retrieved the bottle, shook out two pills, and swallowed them dry, throwing her head back.

It was supposed to get better, wasn't it?

Dr. Warren had said that as long as she took her medication on time and avoided emotional stress, she could maintain her condition.

So why did it still hurt this much?

She had spent a fortune, even paying off the doctor to alter her medical records. If that mercenary old man Eric, or that snob Veronica West, found out she was permanently broken, what value would she have left in the family?

She would fade back into being the invisible nobody no one cared about.

The medicine was slow to kick in, and her heartbeat wouldn't settle.

Margot braced herself against the cold marble floor, gasping for air, her vision blurring.

Once she caught her breath, she pulled out her phone and dialed the number she managed to acquire every time he changed it.

Rhys smiled self-deprecatingly, his thumb tracing the scars on his palm.

Since joining the special tactical unit, he had been to the border, defused bombs, and added over a dozen scars to his collection, trading blood for two medals of honor.

Although he had resolved never to disturb them, he had often wondered: if he were lucky enough to meet her again, would he be worthy of standing before her?

But when the moment actually came, the only thing he could manage to say was "Goodbye."

"Ahem..."

A soft cough came from behind him.

Rhys snapped out of his thoughts, stubbed out his cigarette, tossed it into the trash can, and turned around.

Mia Huntington approached, holding a jacket, her brows knitted in disapproval. "Smoking again? Your lungs haven't even fully healed yet. Don't you know how to take care of yourself?"

She draped the jacket over his shoulders. Her tone was reproachful, but her eyes held genuine concern.

Over the past two years, her nephew had changed.

Ever since Clara left, he had lived like an unsheathed blade—dangerous to others, and damaging to himself.