Chapter 542
Chapter 541:
A sleek black SUV pulled up to the curb. The rear door opened, and Senator Hayes stepped out. He wore a stiff, immaculate navy suit, his posture rigid, his expression an unreadable mask of political calculation — a man who looked as though he scheduled his bathroom breaks months in advance.
He walked over and took the seat opposite Bella. He didn’t smile.
“Good morning, Ms. Douglas,” Hayes said, his voice a deep, authoritative baritone. He pulled a leather notebook from his breast pocket without hesitation. “I have reviewed the itinerary for our public appearances this month. We need to align our talking points p>
Bella looked at the handsome, thoroughly unreadable man sitting across from her and suppressed a heavy sigh.
She knew the rules. The Douglas family needed his political shield to survive Gaston’s wrath. Hayes needed the Douglas money to fund his reelection. This was a transaction — cold, bloodless, and entirely calculated.
“Of course, Senator,” Bella replied politely. She looked away, watching the New York traffic move past, secretly wishing for even a fraction of the chaotic, burning passion Jocelyn had found.
Hayes looked up from his notebook. His sharp eyes caught her distant, bored expression.
A microscopic shift occurred in his rigid posture. The corner of his mouth twitched — revealing a flash of something dark, intense, and entirely un-political hidden beneath his perfect facade.
The high-pitched, continuous scream of the heart monitor sliced through the sterile air of the Mount Sinai VIP cardiovascular ICU.
Kieran Douglas lay flat on the narrow hospital bed. His skin was the color of wet ash, his chest barely moving, his breathing reduced to shallow, erratic gasps that rattled in his throat.
ո𝗼𝘃е𝗹𝗌 𝗂𝘯 t𝗿е𝗻𝗱 𝘰ո
A team of top-tier cardiologists rushed into the room, their shoes squeaking sharply against the polished linoleum floor.
“Clear the bed,” the lead doctor shouted.
A nurse ripped the thin hospital gown open, exposing Kieran’s pale, sweat-drenched chest. Another doctor pressed the heavy defibrillator paddles firmly against his skin.
“Clear p>
The electrical current slammed into his body. His back arched violently off the mattress. His limbs jerked in a grotesque, unnatural spasm before he collapsed back onto the sheets.
The monitor continued its flat, deadly scream.
“Hit him again,” the doctor ordered, his face tight with urgency. “Charge to two hundred p>
Outside the glass walls of the ICU, the private physician for the Douglas family stood trembling, wiping a thick layer of cold sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.
He looked at the Douglas family elders gathered in the hallway. Their faces were grim and furious.
“The panic attack triggered a severe cardiac arrhythmia,” the physician explained, his voice unsteady. “The psychological shock was too massive. He is still in critical condition p>
Miles away, the atmosphere in the Manhattan penthouse was the exact opposite of death.
Warm, golden morning sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, spilling across the plush white rugs and heavy oak furniture. Jocelyn sat curled up on the oversized velvet sofa, holding a ceramic mug of warm milk in both hands. The heat seeped into her palms, grounding her.