His Bride in Chains

Chapter 203: Where He Wasn’t.

Henry Jackson stood frozen in his bedroom, the cracked screen of his spare phone staring up at him from the floor like a mocking eye. The word "accident" echoed in his skull, a thunderclap that drowned out everything else. How could he have been so blind—so utterly, unforgivably stupid? While he’d been playing the hero for Isabella, chasing ghosts of jealousy and misplaced chivalry, Eliana had been probably fighting for her life in a hospital. And her father?. His hands trembled as he bent down, snatching the phone up with a curse under his breath."Eliana? Eliana, are you still there?" His voice cracked, raw with panic, as he pressed the device to his ear.

On the other end, Eliana’s breath came in shaky bursts, her honey eyes fluttering shut in the sterile glow of the hospital room. "Henry... yes, I’m here. Please, just... come. I need you."

"I’m coming. Right now. St. Patrick’s Hospital, you said? Which room? Tell me everything—wait, no, stay on the line. I’m grabbing my keys." Henry’s feet were already moving, propelling him down the stairs in a blur of motion. The empty house amplified his footsteps, each one a hammer blow to his guilt-ridden heart. He burst through the front door, the autumn wind whipping at his face like a reprimand, and yanked open the garage door with a metallic groan.

Eliana’s voice trembled through the speaker. "VIP wing, Room 507. Henry, it’s bad. Papa... he’s in a coma. And the baby—oh God, I almost lost it."

Henry’s pulse kicked hard as he stepped into the plush interior of his midnight-blue BMW M8, the cabin swallowing him in quiet luxury. With a tap, the engine awakened—smooth, powerful, effortless—nothing like the chaos suddenly tearing through his chest.

"A coma?" His voice thundered through the car’s pristine silence. "What the hell happened? Start talking. I’m switching you to speaker."

He set the phone into the built-in console mount with practiced precision. The car glided out of the estate driveway, the tires gripping the asphalt with controlled aggression. He didn’t screech or swerve—he commanded the road, but his mind was anything but steady, each turn fueled by a rising storm of fear.

Eliana hesitated, her words catching on a sob. "Not over the phone. It’s too much. Just get here safe. Please."

The drive was a nightmare of blurred traffic lights and honking horns. Henry’s mind raced faster than the car, replaying every missed call, every moment he’d wasted at Isabella’s penthouse. He weaved through midday congestion, his knuckles pale on the steering wheel. "I’m such an idiot," he muttered to himself, though Eliana heard it.

"Henry, don’t say that. You couldn’t have known."

"But I should have! I lost my damn phone last night—dropped it someplace I can’t recall. I should’ve borrowed one sooner. God, Eliana, if anything happens to you or Frank because I wasn’t there..." His voice trailed off into a choked whisper, the city skyline looming ahead like a judgmental sentinel.

Twenty agonizing minutes later, Henry screeched into the hospital parking lot, slamming the car door behind him without bothering to lock it. He sprinted through the sliding doors, the antiseptic smell hitting him like a wave. "VIP wing," he gasped to the receptionist, flashing his ID with shaking hands. "Room 507. Eliana Bennett."hat didn’t reach his pretend-clouded eyes. It was polished, practiced—the mask of a man who’d spent years hiding behind walls. "Ah, Henry. What a pleasant surprise. Come in, come in. Don’t stand there like a statue." He withdrew his hand from Eliana’s bump with deliberate slowness, as if reluctant to break the connection.

Henry swallowed hard, forcing his gaze away from where Rafael’s touch had lingered. "Eliana... you look... I’m just glad you’re okay." He moved to her bedside, ignoring Rafael for a moment.

To be continued...