When the waiter came to clean later that night, he found her curled in a corner—unconscious, pale, barely breathing.
...
The acrid scent of disinfectant hit her nose.
Helena opened her eyes to a white ceiling.
She was still alive.
But the realization brought no comfort—only a suffocating heaviness pressing down on her chest. A tear slid silently across her cheek, sinking into the pillow and leaving a faint wet stain.
She remembered the days when Jackson would panic over the smallest paper cut on her finger, holding her hand and blowing gently on the wound.
Helena, he once said, even your frown hurts my heart.
Now, she could collapse in agony before him, and he would still turn away—for another woman's shallow scratch.
She was wrong...
So wrong.
She regretted ever loving Jackson Cabrera.
Her stomach still throbbed painfully. She pulled the IV needle from her arm and dragged herself out of bed, one hand pressed to the wall as she searched for a doctor to ask for painkillers.
Halfway down the corridor, a door stood ajar. A familiar voice drifted out.
"Mr. Cabrera, are you sure you want Miss McCarthy to use this special medication?" the doctor asked hesitantly.