CHAPTER 142: JUST YOU

"Tell me!"

She faltered.

"Mrs. Delacroix—"

"Don’t fucking call me that!" I spat, my rage shaking me to my core.

A man in a white coat stepped in—the doctor. Clipboard in hand.

The nurse used the distraction to scurry off and out the door.

I turned sharply, my gaze locking onto a man in a white coat—mid-forties, salt-and-pepper hair, glasses perched on his nose.

He held a clipboard, his expression unreadable.

"Where..." My throat was raw, my voice barely a whisper. "Where is my baby?"

A pause. A heavy, suffocating pause.

The doctor’s fingers tightened around the clipboard. "Mrs. Delacroix, I—"

"Where is my baby?! Please, I’m not crazy!" My voice cracked, desperation turning my words into something ugly, feral.

The doctor swallowed, glancing at the door like he wanted to escape, just like the nurse had done.

That was all the confirmation I needed.

A horrible, gut-wrenching realization slammed into me.

My baby was gone.

A sharp sob tore from my chest. "No... no... you’re lying."

I tried to move, to get out of bed, but my body was weak. My hands shook as I clutched the bedsheets. "You’re lying—tell me you’re lying!"

The doctor exhaled, rubbing his temple. "There was a complication—"

"Bullshit." I wasn’t stupid. I had been fine. I had been careful. This wasn’t a ’complication.’

Someone had taken my child.

I turned my tear-filled gaze to the doctor, and for the first time, I noticed it—the slight twitch in his fingers. The nervous way he avoided my eyes.

He was lying.

"Who?" I demanded, my voice breaking. "Who did this?"

Silence.

Then—

"It was Mr. Delacroix."

The words hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest.

I stilled, my breath catching. My ears rang.

"...What?"

The doctor flinched at the look in my eyes. "Mr. Delacroix gave the order, the moment he heard you murmuring in your sleep about your child."

A sharp pain bloomed in my chest, something far worse than the physical pain ravaging my body.

Malcom.

He killed our child.

I let out a shaky breath, my mind whirling in a thousand directions, trying—desperately trying—to make sense of it.

Why?

Why would he do this?

Was he so desperate to sever all ties between us? So terrified that a child would bind us together forever? So afraid to give child support that I didn’t need?

The divorce wasn’t even finalized yet.

My stomach twisted.

Did he hate me that much?

Tears burned my eyes, but beneath the overwhelming grief, something else slithered in, dark and venomous.

Rage.

Pure, seething rage.

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms until I felt the sting of broken skin.

If Malcom wanted war, I’d give him HELL!!!

I wiped my tears, inhaling sharply. "Get out," I whispered.

Keep talking," he murmured, intrigue flickering in his gaze.

I smirked, tilting my head slightly.

Now, I’d ruin him.

Piece. By. Piece.

---

Two days later, I walked out of the hospital alone.

No flowers. No well-wishers.

Just me and the bitter wind slicing against my skin.

I barely registered the taxi ride home. My mind locked on one thing—

Revenge.

I needed to hurt Malcom the way he had hurt me.

And I knew exactly where to start.

The moment I stepped into my Villa, my phone buzzed.

I checked the screen.

A news article.

[Adam Hayes Fails to Secure Multi-Billion Dollar Deal, Loses to Delacroix Industries.]

I stared at the headline, a slow, cruel smile curling at my lips.

Perfect.

Adam Hayes was Malcom’s biggest competitor. They had been fighting over that contract for months.

If Adam had lost, then he was desperate.

Desperate enough to take my deal.

I wasted no time.

Within the hour, I tracked him down. A bar. Private lounge. High-end. Dimly lit. The kind of place where billionaires nursed their bruised egos.

Adam sat at the far end, a whiskey glass in hand, frustration written all over his face.

I walked in, draped in shadows, my face hidden beneath the hood of my coat.

His body tensed when I approached. "Who the hell—"

"I have something you want Adam Hayes," I interrupted, my voice low, calm.

Adam’s eyes narrowed. "And what would that be?"

I leaned in, close enough that he could hear the venom in my voice.

"A way to destroy Malcom Delacroix."

His grip on the glass tightened.

Bait taken.

"Keep talking," he murmured, intrigue flickering in his gaze.

I smirked, tilting my head slightly.

"Not here," I whispered. "Somewhere private."

A long pause. Then—

He stood. "Follow me."

I did.

And as I walked behind him, one thought burned through my mind.

’Malcom took my child. Now, I’ll take everything from him.’

Starting with his empire.

Why would he do this?

Was he so desperate to sever all ties between us? So terrified that a child would bind us together forever? So afraid to give child support that I didn’t need?

The divorce wasn’t even finalized yet.

My stomach twisted.

Did he hate me that much?

Tears burned my eyes, but beneath the overwhelming grief, something else slithered in, dark and venomous.

Rage.

Pure, seething rage.

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms until I felt the sting of broken skin.

If Malcom wanted war, I’d give him HELL!!!

I wiped my tears, inhaling sharply. "Get out," I whispered.

The doctor hesitated. "Mrs. Delacroix, I—"

"I said, GET OUT!" My voice shattered through the room, raw and unhinged.

The doctor scurried out just like that nurse, slamming the door behind him.

I collapsed back against the bed, my body trembling. My hand instinctively moved to my stomach again, to where my child should have been.

I had been naïve. I had thought leaving Malcom with a fake broken heart was enough. That playing the pitiful, discarded wife was the best way to make him pay.

But now?

And then, like any sensible person confronted with a group of mafia-looking men at her doorstep, without thinking, I began to shut the door. "Wrong apartment, sorry—"

Before I could lock it, Tattoo Guy’s hand shot out, stopping the door with surprising ease. His lips twitched into a smirk. "Why the rush, Ms. Martinez? We’re not here to hurt you."