When Her Death Couldn't Break Him (Cecilia and Nathaniel) novel Chapter 2202

Chelsea hadn't run away only to be with Jason. Another reason gnawed at her: the suffocating air of her parents' house had finally become more than she could bear.

Since Chelsea had hit her mid-twenties, every conversation with her parents felt like a broken record—either they pressed her about marriage, or they compared her to some cousin who already had a shining career and a chubby grandbaby on the way.

In the end, she finally packed her life into two suitcases, rented a modest loft, and moved in with Jason. She found an ordinary nine-to-five and, to her surprise, the simple routine made her feel as light as a kite in an open field.

That night, she tugged the blanket over her shoulders and drifted back to sleep, completely unaware that, across town, her parents lay wide-eyed in the dark, matching heartbeats racing against the bedroom clock.

Kingston stamped across the rug as though trying to crush his worry into the floorboards. "So this is your perfect daughter!" he shouted, voice cracking with frustration.

Phoebe rolled her eyes, arms folded tight. "Oh, please. As if she isn't yours too."

Kingston opened his mouth, but no words came—only a breath that soured into helpless silence.

"What are we supposed to do now?" Kingston asked, palms slicing through the air. "We can't just watch Jason ruin her life."

Phoebe's shoulders drooped. A sigh escaped before she could stop it.

"You know how stubborn Chelsea is," she said, staring into the pitch-black window. "When she settles on something, nothing moves her. Are we meant to drag her home in ropes?"

Drag her home...

The idea flickered in Kingston's eyes like a struck match. "Maybe we should. We can't risk her giving that boy a child, can we?"

Because if Chelsea carried Jason's baby, tearing the two apart would be almost impossible.

The next morning arrived, pale and undecided, as though even the sun was unsure whose side to take.

Chelsea woke before her alarm, swallowed a quick breakfast, and headed out, the steam of her coffee still curling in the hallway behind her.

She had barely stepped beyond the residential gates—and was still scrolling for a rideshare—when a black van glided to a stop, its tinted windows swallowing her reflection.

Three suited bodyguards spilled out, boots thudding like iron hammers. Before she processed the danger, strong hands seized her arms and lifted her off the pavement.

"Help! Somebody—help!" she screamed, voice shredding in the chill air.

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