FOUR

My body tensed as I stood in the sterile Crown’s hospital corridor, my heart pounding with a mixture of fear and desperation.

Anxiety gnawed at me, threatening to consume my every thought.

With each passing moment, the weight of suspense grew heavier, and I struggled to find comfort in the bustling chaos around me.

The constant flurry of hospital staff, clad in their urgent scrubs, rushed in and out of Damian's room, their movements a blur of urgency. The sound of their hurried footsteps echoed through the corridor, creating an atmosphere of controlled disorder.

My eyes darted anxiously from one medical professional to another, searching for any hint of information about Damian's condition. I longed for a glimpse into his room, hoping to catch a peek at his well-being.

To me, every fleeting glance, each whispered conversation, held the potential to be a lifeline of hope or a dagger of despair.

Summoning every ounce of courage, I called out to a passing nurse, my voice betraying the tremors of anxiety that coursed through me. "Excuse me, do you have any updates on Damian? How is he doing?"

The nurse paused for a moment, her eyes filled with empathy as she met my gaze. "I understand your concern, but Mr. Crown’s parents are on their way. Doctor Crown is with him right now, doing everything he can. I assure you, he's in good hands."

Doctor Crown.

That's Damian’s Uncle, Jonathan’s twin brother.

I nodded, my worry far from being alleviated, as I watched the nurse hurry off, disappearing into the bustling chaos of urgent activity.

Restless, I paced back and forth, my footsteps echoing alongside those of the hospital staff.

My mind, clouded with worry, struggled to make sense of the questions that flooded my consciousness. But the answers remained elusive, slipping through my fingers like ethereal wisps.

And then, the news struck me like a bolt of lightning—Damian’s parents were on their way!

A surge of anticipation washed over me.

What would they think of me? Would they believe that I had nothing to do with this crisis? Or would my explanations fall on deaf ears?

The pressure mounted, and my thoughts became a jumbled mess, leaving me feeling helpless and disoriented.

My fingers clenched into tight, knotted fists, my nails mercilessly digging into my trembling palms, as I found myself trapped in the suffocating grip of self-doubt and relentless guilt.

Every interaction, every fleeting moment leading up to the heart-wrenching crisis played on an agonizing loop within the recesses of my mind, as I desperately searched my memories for any signs of blame that could be hurled in my direction.

The weight in my chest grew unbearable, constricting like a vice around my pounding heart, as the memory of that fateful moment rushed back with an overwhelming intensity.

I could vividly recall the sheer horror etched across my face as I mustered every ounce of strength within me, pushing him away with a desperate force fueled by a primal instinct to protect. The echoes of my own voice reverberated through my fractured thoughts, a raw and haunting reflection of the terror that consumed me, as I bolted out of the room in a frenzied whirlwind, my anguished screams piercing the air.

But it was the haunting image of Damian, lying there motionless, that had etched itself into the deepest recesses of my consciousness, forever etching an indelible scar upon my soul. The sheer petrification that gripped me, rendering me momentarily frozen, was a tormenting reminder of the fragility of life and the cruel twists of fate.

Suddenly, the sound of more urgent footsteps echoed through the corridor, drawing my attention. I turned to see Jonathan Crown, accompanied by a blond-haired woman whom I identified as Maria Crown, Damian’s mother, and a retinue of stern-faced hospital and security personnel, rushing towards me. The clatter of their shoes on the linoleum floor only heightened the sense of urgency.

The entourage halted a few steps back while Jonathan and Maria closed in.

Maria's expression displayed a blend of concern and anger.

While she looked elegant and conventional in the severely tailored blue silk gown and pearls, to me, who was meeting her for the first time, she looked like a woman who was an enemy to herself.

One who hated her own gender.

Without warning, her hand swung through the air, landing with a sharp slap across my face.

Pain radiated through my cheeks, as my eyes widened in shock.

“What have you done to my son?” Maria’s voice, laced with scorn, cut through the air. “What did you do to my raison d’être?”

Her words cut deeply, and I felt a swell of frustration and sadness.

I wanted to explain, to make her understand that I was not responsible, but the words caught in my throat.

•MARIA CROWN•

My hand instinctively rose to her cheek, trembling with shock and despair. I watched as her hazel eyes welled with tears.

“I'm sorry,” she said, in an irritating soft voice.

But it was the eyes that vexed me more.

It was curious, the way my irritation seemed to stem more from her eyes than her bird-like voice.

Those hazel eyes, so striking and intense, had an uncanny ability to incite a potent mix of anger and familiarity within me.

Yes, it was the elusive nature of that familiarity that served to further fuel my frustration and confusion.

"Stop this madness, Maria," Jonathan intervened, his voice tinged with concern as he approached her. "The poor girl must be just as shocked as the rest of us. She's the victim here."

Of course, men are too easy to control. Especially when you're a black-haired bitch with enchanting hazel eyes.

“Poor girl.” I mocked, watching the slender pale face intensively.

The raspberry cotton sheath clung to her body with a deceptive innocence. Her only cosmetic indulgence was the heavy abundance of her waist-length dark curls.

Men, I do not respect, but women? Especially these fragile-looking ones. I hold them in high regard.

Had it not been women like Elizabeth and Caroline who have caused immense grief in life?

What's more, this was the first time my raison d’être had broached the subject of marriage with any of his nameless, faceless, and forgettable little girls.

Get me not wrong.

I have no qualms about my son marrying one day. If it made him happy, I would even permit him polygamy.

But not with someone like her.

Not with some manipulative, worthless, and uncouth chick who would only experiment with his heart and soul, all the while appearing naive and harmless.

Believe me, I have crossed paths with her kind and the memories still linger on. The scars they imparted, ever fresh.

In that instant, Joshua emerged from Damian's room, interrupting my thoughts.

His countenance etched with the unmistakable burden of unease and anxiety.

The weight of uncertainty bore down on my heart, its presence becoming an oppressive force, squeezing with an agonizing grip that threatened to suffocate me.

Jonathan, unable to contain his own sense of urgency, wasted no time in voicing his concerns. "What's the matter with him?" he demanded, his voice heavy with an observable worry that reverberated through the air.

Joshua’s face, now marked by deep lines of anxiety, cast his gaze from me to his twin, a silent exchange of shared concern.

They stood there, side by side, a testament to the fascinating paradox of their existence— two individuals, born of the same essence, bearing a striking resemblance, yet each possessing their own unique qualities that set them apart.

There was a pregnant pause, a heaviness in the air before Joshua spoke.

“Who was he with when he collapsed?” Joshua questioned, his voice weighed down by worry.

“Why? What's happened? Talk to us. How's Damian?” I screamed, my voice resonating with a mixture of fear and anguish.

The tension in the air heightened, and I held my breath, desperate for answers.

And then, with a single word, he landed a devastating blow that shattered the fragile thread of hope that had stuck to my heart.

“Seems like he was poisoned.”