Chapter 7
Christian Valentine's POV:
The antiseptic smell of the hospital clawed at my throat, tightening it more than any lie. I paced the sterile hallway, my expensive shoes making no sound on the polished linoleum. Blair was inside, undergoing tests. She'd had a fall. Another "miscarriage scare," she'd tearfully explained.
The doctor, a nervous-looking man, finally emerged. "Mr. Valentine, good news. Ms. Mayo is fine. The baby... is also fine. A perfect little fighter."
A wave of relief, so potent it almost buckled my knees, washed over me. "Thank God," I murmured, running a hand through my hair. Another crisis averted. Another potential "stain" on my perfect future removed.
I went into Blair's room. She lay there, pale and fragile, a picture of vulnerability. Her large, innocent eyes fluttered open. "Christian," she whispered, her voice weak. "Our baby... is it okay?"
"Yes, my love," I said, forcing a reassuring smile. "Everything is fine. You and the baby are both strong." I stroked her hair, a practiced gesture. She was carrying my heir. My pure, unblemished heir.
"Stay with me," she pleaded, her fingers clutching my sleeve. "I'm so scared. I need you."
A flicker of irritation. I had meetings. Deals to close. But the image of her tears, of her clutching her stomach, held me. I was responsible for her now. For them.
I excused myself for a moment, stepping back into the sterile hallway. The relief was still there, but beneath it, a strange sense of unease. Blair was fine. The baby was fine. Why did it feel... wrong?
My mind drifted to Elena. Elena. The name was a ghost on my tongue. I remembered her in a hospital room, not so long ago. Her face, pale and drawn, tears streaming down her cheeks. The doctors shaking their heads. "I'm sorry, Mr. Valentine. We lost the baby."
A sharp pang, unexpected and unwelcome, pierced through my chest. Elena' s loss had been real. Raw. My son. Our son. Alexander. I had barely acknowledged it. I had been so consumed by Blair's drama, by her feigned innocence, by my twisted need for a "pure" future.
I had loved Elena. Deeply. Fiercely. A different kind of love, perhaps. More challenging, more complex. She wasn't "pure" in the way I obsessively craved, but she had captured my heart with her strength, her intelligence, her vibrant spirit. I convinced myself that her "past" was a burden, that Blair was the clean slate I needed. I convinced myself that Elena's grief was "selfish," her anger "toxic."
But now, in the quiet solitude of the hospital corridor, the truth began to claw at me. What if I had been wrong? What if Elena's loss was indeed more profound than any of Blair's manufactured scares?
No, I chided myself. Elena was complicated. She pushed boundaries. Blair was simple, sweet, compliant. And she was carrying my child. That was what mattered. My bloodline.
I pulled out my phone, a sudden, desperate urge to reach out to Elena. To explain. To apologize. To convince her that Blair was just a temporary distraction, a means to an end. That she was my true love. My real future.
I typed a message: Elena, I know things have been difficult. But I've been thinking about us. About our future. Blair... she's just a mistake. I want you back. I want to make things right.
I hit send. Then another: I' ll get rid of Blair. I swear. I'll take care of her. And the baby. We can erase all of this. Start over. Just you and me.
I even contemplated telling her the truth about my plan. To terminate Blair's pregnancy. To remove the "problem" for good. Elena would understand, wouldn't she? She would see that I was proving my love, that I was choosing her.
Seconds stretched into minutes. Minutes into hours. No reply. My phone remained stubbornly silent.
She's probably just busy, I told myself, trying to quell the rising panic. She needs space. She'll come around. She always did. Elena was strong, but she was also hopelessly devoted to me.
But the silence persisted.
I tried calling. Straight to voicemail. Again. And again. A cold dread began to creep into my heart. This wasn't like Elena. She always answered, eventually.
I called my penthouse. "Where is Elena?" I demanded of the housekeeper.
"Mr. Valentine," her voice, usually steady, sounded hesitant. "Mrs. Valentine... she left. Days ago."
My blood ran cold. "Left? What do you mean, 'left'?"
"She packed some things. Said she was going on a trip. Didn't say where."
A trip. No. This wasn't a trip. Elena didn't just leave without telling me. She was angry, yes. But she wouldn't abandon me. Not me. Not Christian Valentine.
My perfect world, the one I had so carefully constructed around Blair's fragile innocence, began to crack. Elena, my Elena, was gone.
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