Chapter 132
The hundred and thirty four
+15 Bcnus
One hundred and thirty four
Lisa POV
I kept my eyes fixed on the plastic-domed food tray. The meal consisted of a scoop of gray mashed potatoes and a piece of boiled chicken that looked like wet cardboard. A printed label with my name and room number was taped to the side. I picked up the plastic fork and poked at the chicken, watching the clear juice pool in the corner of the
tray.
My mom let out a small, dry laugh from her chair.
“So now the hospital kitchen is part of the plot too?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, dropping the fork. It hit the tray with a dull thud. “Right now, anything feels possible. I don’t trust the air in here p>
She shook her head and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “That is not a normal way to live, Lisa. You are in a high-security ward. This place is literally designed to keep you alive p>
“And yet, I still ended up with a needle in my arm and toxins in my blood,” I countered. I looked at the dark window. The rain had stopped, leaving only distorted reflections of the monitor lights on the glass.
She didn’t answer immediately. She rubbed her palms together, the sound of skin on skin loud in the quiet room. If someone truly did this, then it was a methodical plan. This didn’t just happen by accident p>
I kept my gaze on the tray, watching a bead of condensation roll down the inside of the plastic lid.
“Or,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, “there is no villain. Maybe there is nothing to find, and this is just my body failing at the worst possible time p>
She looked at me, her eyes searching mine. “You don’t believe that for a second p>
I shrugged, but the movement pulled at the tape on my wrist.
The IV line remained anchored in my skin. The clear bag was nearly empty, the last few drops hanging in the plastic chamber. The doctors had spent the day flushing my system with saline and medications I couldn’t name. The results were visible. The fever had broken an hour ago, leaving my skin cool and damp. I could sit up without the room spinning. I could swallow without gagging. But the physical relief didn’t touch the dread in my chest.
No one said the words out loud anymore, but the silence was heavy. The baby was still at risk. Every time a nurse checked the fetal heart monitor, I held my breath until I heard the rhythmic galloping sound
“I need to take a walk,” I said, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. My feet hit the cold floor, and a shiver went up my spine.
My mom stood up instantly. “You are not steady enough for that, Lisa. Stay in the bed p>
“I’m fine. I just need to move p>
The door pushed open before I could stand. Dr. Vance stepped in, holding a digital tablet and a paper file. He looked at me, then at my feet on the floor.
“I am glad to see you are feeling mobile, Lisa. Your blood markers are stabilizing. If this trend holds, we can discuss a discharge before the end of the week p>
“And the baby?” I asked. I didn’t care about the discharge.
“We are monitoring the heart rate and placental blood flow,” he said. He didn’t look up from the file.
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ne hundred and thirty four
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“That is not an answer, Doctor. Is the baby safe p>
“It is the only answer I can give you right now,” he said, finally meeting my eyes. His expression was professional and guarded.
“So I am getting better, but you won’t commit to saying the baby is out of the woods p>
“We need another high-resolution scan to check for developmental stress,” he explained.
I held his gaze, refusing to look away. “If something is wrong, just say it. Don’t hide behind the word ‘monitoring
He closed the file with a decisive snap. “Let’s get the ultrasound done. We have a slot open in ten minutes p>
“Fine p>
The walk to the imaging lab felt longer than usual. My mom walked close to my left side, her hand hovering near my elbow in case I stumbled. The hallway was a blur of white walls and the smell of floor wax. We passed a nurse pushing a cart of clean linens, the wheels squeaking against the linoleum.
Inside the dim room, I lay back on the table. The paper cover crinkled loudly under my weight. I placed my hand on my stomach, feeling the slight curve of my skin. I didn’t pray, but I felt a desperate internal plea for the screen to show me a sign of life.
The technician applied the cold gel. I winced as he pressed the probe against my abdomen. The machine hummed to life, and a grainy image appeared on the monitor.
“Everything looks okay for the moment,” the technician said. He sounded bored, which I took as a good sign.
I watched his face, looking for a twitch of the lip or a furrow of the brow. He noticed my staring and adjusted the settings, zooming in on the tiny, flickering heart.
“We will send the full report and the measurements to Dr. Vance,” he added.
I lay there, staring at the white ceiling tiles while he moved the probe in slow, circular motions. The room was cold. The only sound was the electronic pulse of the machine. They had already told me to prepare for a loss. Every second of this scan felt like an execution stay.
After it was over, I sat up slowly. I wiped the gel off my skin with a thick paper towel. My mom stayed quiet, her eyes fixed on the black-and-white printout the machine had produced.
The talk of discharge stayed in my head as we walked back to the room. It didn’t feel like a victory. It felt like they were clearing a bed because they had done all they could. It felt like I was being sent home to wait for the end.
My phone buzzed in the pocket of my robe. It was a notification from the bank.
I stared at the numbers on the screen. If this ended without a culprit, the pack would call it a medical
complication. They would pay me, close the file, and move on. The person who had put the toxins in my vitamins would still be sitting in a mansion, eating dinner and breathing clean air.
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Cedella
Cedella is a passionate storyteller known for her bold romantic and spicy novels that keep readers hooked from the very first chapter. With a flair for crafting emotionally intense plots and unforgettable characters, she blends love, desire, and drama into every story she writes. Cedella’s storytelling style is immersive and addictive—perfect for fans of heated romances and heart-pounding twists.