The Wife You Buried Is Back from Hell novel Chapter 1339

"Find out exactly who was on the patio when she went in. Get their numbers and interrogate them one by one."

"And put eyes on Ella. Do not let her leave this building."

"Right away, Mr. Davidson," Charley said sharply, pivoting to execute the orders.

Danielle looked at Alexander's hardened profile and reached out to lace her fingers through his. Her hand was ice-cold and trembling. "Alex, is she going to be okay?"

"She looked so lifeless... It was terrifying."

"She'll pull through," Alexander murmured, squeezing her hand reassuringly. "She's a fighter."

His voice was completely steady, yet beneath it lay a tightly coiled tension.

He knew Kirsten wasn't just Danielle’s closest friend—she was the woman who completely owned Gian's heart.

If she didn't make it, Gian would lose his mind.

Inside the ballroom, the guests were far too shaken to continue networking.

The screams and the blinding ambulance lights had completely shattered the summit's glamorous facade.

Whispers infected the room like a virus, everyone speculating on who had fallen in and how it happened.

Taking a slow, measured breath, Alexander adjusted his suit jacket and strode back into the chaos.

This government-sponsored summit was far from over, and he had to manage the fallout.

But honestly, neither he nor Danielle had the patience to stay.

Their only goal was to lock down the evidence, burn Ella to the ground, and get to the hospital to check on Kirsten.

The night dragged on.

Under the harsh, unforgiving fluorescent lights of the emergency room, time seemed to stand still.

Kirsten lay motionless in the hospital bed, buried beneath layers of thick blankets, her skin still possessing a sickly pallor.

The hours ticked by in agonizing slow motion until the first pale streaks of dawn finally broke through the window.

Kirsten's eyelashes fluttered before she groggily opened her eyes.

The room was a fuzzy smear of whites and blues.

She twitched her fingers, immediately noticing the heavy, calloused warmth wrapped around her hand. It was Gian.

Turning her head sluggishly on the pillow, she found him slumped over the edge of the mattress.

He had fallen into an exhausted, restless sleep, a deep crease of worry permanently etched between his brows.

His grip on her was unyielding, his knuckles white from how tightly he held on even in his sleep.

Staring at his worn, rugged profile, a soft, aching warmth flooded her chest.

The memories rushed back—plummeting into the deep end, the suffocating water, the absolute certainty that she was going to die.