The Officer's Runaway Wife & Secret Son novel Chapter 325

Clara would never forget his reaction back then.

She had seen his shoulders sag as he let out a long, deep breath.

She could still feel the weight of that breath to this day.

"Speak," Clara prompted, tapping the desk when he remained silent. "At the hospital, when you thought the baby was gone, you felt you were off the hook, didn't you? That you wouldn't have to choose between me and Margot Johnson. Is that right?"

Rhys's eyelid twitched.

When he had rushed to the hospital that day, Clara was lying in an observation room bed. When she told him herself that "the baby is gone," he had, after a moment of fear, felt a sense of relief.

At that moment, looking at Clara's flat stomach, he had thought: *This is for the best.*

He hadn't known how to accept a new life.

Logan Huntington had lied to him, promising to take him to a volcano after coming home, but he never came back. Veronica West had lied to him, claiming she loved him and his father most, only to move into another man's house.

He was terrified he would end up like Logan, leaving one day and never returning. He was even more terrified he would be like Veronica West, casting a lifelong shadow over his child.

He was a sick man. A broken man.

"You want the truth?"

Rhys stood before the desk. The overhead light cast a shadow from the side, making the scar on his brow look especially deep.

Clara's face was impassive. "I can tell whether it's the truth or not."

"Yes."

Not even an attempt at an excuse.

After four years, the dull ache crept back through his nerve endings, consuming his entire body.

Rhys's hands, hanging at his sides, clenched into fists. "I wasn't ready. And with Margot's health… at the time, I thought… that it being gone would be better for you, and for the baby."

Clara nodded. "Daniel Reed told me. He said you're sick."

"I didn't know any of this back then, so I blamed you for being cold-blooded, for for having a heart made of ice that no one could melt." A humorless smile touched her lips. "I know now, Rhys. It is tragic, and I do feel sorry for you."

Rhys avoided her gaze. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Your sickness is your business. Whether you can be cured is also your business." Clara's tone remained cool. "But there's one thing I don't understand."

"Your trauma stems from Veronica West and the Johnson family. So why are you so exceptionally good to Margot?"

Rhys's eyes hardened.

"Why is it that when she's unwell, you can stay up all night with her, but when Emily Lane told you I was dying, you could drag your feet coming downstairs, even though you were right there?"

As she spoke, Clara's throat tightened as she fought back tears.

The girl, not even ten years old, spent nearly a year in the hospital. She underwent multiple surgeries, had a portion of her lung removed, and was left frail and dependent on medication for life.

He had been the one to push her out that door.

That steel bar didn't kill Margot, but it handed Rhys a death sentence.

Later, he met Clara and married her.

On the first snow in Brighton City, Clara had been ecstatically preparing for an anniversary that wasn't even a real holiday.

When Rhys came home from work, the house was filled with balloons and streamers, and Clara was busy in the kitchen.

Clara was actually a terrible cook, which was why he had learned to cook. It was one of the rare moments he felt an attachment to the word 'home.'

He craved that warmth, craved that endearingly foolish Clara.

That night, Margot had called him too.

His phone kept ringing. She said she was at a bar with classmates and wanted him to pick her up.

Looking at Clara, who was just bringing out a cake, Rhys chose to refuse. He told Margot to go home early.

He hung up and switched his phone to silent. Even when the screen lit up several more times, he didn't look at it again.