novelraw Chapter 179: The Scare
Chapter 179: The Scare
Ares crossed the room in long, urgent strides, his pulse roaring in his ears. He didn’t spare Yannis a glance as he pushed past him, all focus locked on the still figure on the bed.
"Move," he muttered, already bending. His hands slid beneath Lara with practiced strength, but there was an unfamiliar care in the way he lifted her—as though she might shatter if he held her too tightly.
"Get the car ready," he barked, voice sharp with rising panic. "We’re going to the hospital."
But before he could turn, a small pair of arms wrapped desperately around Lara’s limp body.
Shay.
She clung to her with all the strength her tiny frame could muster, her sobs breaking through the tense air like glass.
"Mommy... please wake up," she cried, her voice trembling and raw. Tears streamed down her cheeks, falling freely onto Lara’s pale face. "Don’t scare me like this... Mommy, please..."
She pressed her face against Lara’s, kissing her again and again, as if sheer love could pull her back. "Wake up... wake up..."
The noise had already begun to ripple through the mansion. Footsteps echoed down the halls, doors opening, whispers swelling into alarm.
Within moments, Asher, Scarlet, and even Grandpa Randell appeared at the doorway, drawn by the chaos.
Asher’s gaze immediately landed on Lara in Ares’s arms. His expression tightened, concern flickering across his features.
"What happened to her?" he asked, his voice low but strained.
Scarlet, however, only folded her arms, her lips curling into a faint, dismissive smirk as she took in the scene.
What a performance, she thought coldly. Is she really unconscious... or just pretending?
But Shay’s cries were anything but an act.
"Mommy can’t wake up!" she wailed, tightening her grip, pressing herself against both Lara and Ares as if refusing to let either go. Her small hands trembled as she clutched Lara’s clothes.
"I’m scared... I’m really scared..."
Her voice cracked as she buried her face against Lara’s cheek once more, whispering through tears, over and over—
"Mommy, please wake up..."
...
Lara’s eyelashes trembled.
Once... twice...
Then, as if pulled back from a distant abyss, her eyes slowly opened—unfocused at first, hazy with lingering darkness—until they settled on a pair of deep, obsidian eyes hovering just above her.
Her lips parted.
"Alaric..." she breathed, the name slipping past her lips like a fragile secret, soft enough to be lost in the air.
Her head tilted weakly to the side, vision still blurred and swimming—until it slowly found a small, familiar face.
Her sweet little angel, tear-streaked and trembling.
Recognition flickered.
"Althea..." she whispered, her voice gentler this time, threaded with a fragile warmth that barely held together.
But Ares was too close—far too close.
To him, those two names didn’t sound soft.
They detonated.
His body went rigid, his grip tightening ever so slightly around her as something sharp and unfamiliar twisted in his chest.
A storm flickered through his gaze—confusion, anger... and something darker he refused to name.
Yannis, standing just beside them, heard it just as clearly.
Alaric?
His brows furrowed. Why is she still clinging to that name? And the other one—Althea... who is that?
"Ares," Yannis said, clearing his throat, though his eyes lingered on Lara with quiet curiosity. "Let her lie down. She needs air."
But Ares didn’t move.
"Lara, it’s me," he said instead, his voice low, almost insistent, as if trying to anchor her back to the present. "Ares."
He didn’t let her go.
Not yet.
From across the room, Grandpa Randell watched everything unfold, his sharp eyes narrowing briefly at Yannis before shifting back to his grandson.
The old man’s gaze softened—just a fraction—as he took in the way Ares hovered over Lara, the tension in his posture, the unmistakable worry etched into his face.
A slow, knowing smile tugged at his lips.
That brat...Pretending he doesn’t care, when he’s practically unraveling over her.
Does he really think he can fool me?
His gaze drifted to Lara, amusement flickering in his eyes.
My grandson has finally fallen. To this exceptional woman...
At the far end of the room, Scarlet stood perfectly still, as if carved from marble—cold and unmoving.
Only her hands betrayed her.
Her nails dug mercilessly into her palms, crescent marks biting into soft skin until it stung, until it grounded her.
But even pain wasn’t enough to steady the storm clawing its way through her chest.
Her gaze never left them.
Ares... holding Lara like she was something precious and irreplaceable.
Every second stretched into agony—slow, deliberate—like a blade being driven deeper, twisting with cruel precision.
That should have been me.
The thought came unbidden, sharp and venomous.
She had stayed in this mansion far longer than dignity allowed, swallowing her pride, bending her will, weaving excuse after excuse just to remain close to him.
Every smile she forced, every step she calculated—it had all been for one purpose.
To make him look at her again. To remind him of what they had. To make him choose her.
But instead... he drifted. Farther.
And now—
Now he looked at another woman the way he used to look at her.
Her chest tightened.
No.
He looked at Lara in a way he had never looked at her.
That quiet urgency. That unguarded fear. That raw, unrestrained concern he never once showed when Scarlet was the one standing in front of him.
Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding as something ugly and festering rose from deep within.
What does she have... that I don’t have?
Lara—fragile, pale, unconscious—and yet she held him more completely than Scarlet ever could.
It didn’t make sense.
It infuriated her.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
She was supposed to be the one at his side. The one he couldn’t ignore. The one he would inevitably return to.
Not... her.
Not someone who appeared out of nowhere and stole everything without even trying.
Her fingers curled tighter, nails biting deeper.
Not only had she failed—
She had run out of time.
Every carefully crafted excuse she had fed her aunt—each delay, each lie wrapped in charm and precision—had unraveled, thread by thread, until nothing remained to hold her there.
No more extensions.
No more escape.