Please Come Back, My Love Chapter 140

Victoria‘s POV

"Just waiting," I told her. "My mom's in surgery."

Another lie. So easy now, like breathing.

I sat in that booth for three hours, using the bathroom to clean myself up as best I could. Washed the blood from under my nails, combed my fingers through my matted hair, tried to make myself look less like a fugitive and more like a worried family member.

At six AM, I walked back to the hospital. The morning shift was just arriving—tired nurses clutching coffee cups, doctors reviewing charts on tablets. I blended into the flow of people, just another visitor arriving early.

The nurse's locker room was on the third floor. I'd scouted it yesterday, noted the cheap locks, the casual security. But with my hands still throbbing and swollen from the fight, picking locks was out of the question.

I waited in the hallway, watching through the small window in the door. Most of the lockers looked new, sturdy. But there was one in the corner—older, with rust around the hinges and a door that didn't quite sit flush.

When the locker room was empty, I slipped inside and went straight to that corner unit. The nameplate read "J. Morrison." I braced my good shoulder against the wall and kicked hard at the bottom corner of the door where the metal looked weakest.

The first kick barely dented it. The second made it buckle slightly. On the third kick, the old latch gave way with a sharp crack.

Inside: scrubs, an ID badge, and—critically—a surgical mask. The badge belonged to Jennifer Morrison, RN. Her photo looked nothing like me, but with the mask covering half my face, it might pass a casual inspection.

I changed quickly, wincing as the fabric brushed against my broken ribs. The scrubs were too big, hanging loose on my frame.

I stuffed my bloody clothes into the bottom of a biohazard bin, clipped the stolen badge to my chest, pulled the mask over my nose and mouth, and made my way to the oncology wing on the fourth floor.

I needed to be smart about this. Walking up to the nurses' station and asking for Elena's mother's room number would be too obvious, too memorable.

Instead, I lingered near the station, pretending to read notices on the bulletin board while keeping my ears open. The morning shift was in full swing—nurses calling out room numbers, discussing patient updates, coordinating care plans.

"...Mrs. Chen in 403 needs her pain meds adjusted..."

"...407's daughter has been here all night, poor thing..."

"...Dr. Rodriguez wants to see the Vance file before rounds..."

*Vance. Room 407.*

I moved closer to the desk where a young woman with exhausted eyes sat staring at her computer. Her name tag read "Sarah Miller, RN." On her screen, I could see a patient list—and there it was: "Vance, Josephine - Room 407 - Palliative Care."

Now I had what I needed, but I still needed a reason to be there.

I approached Sarah's desk, keeping my voice soft and professional. "Excuse me, I'm covering a shift down in the ER. Dr. Rodriguez asked me to double-check the morphine dosage for one of his patients before he makes rounds—Josephine Vance? I saw her name on his list, but I want to make sure I have the right room number."

Sarah glanced up briefly, then back at her screen. "Room 407, end of the hall. But keep it quiet—her daughter's been here all night."

My pulse jumped, but I kept my expression neutral behind the mask. "Of course. Dr. Rodriguez mentioned the family's been having a tough time."

"Yeah, it's heartbreaking. The daughter barely leaves her side."

I nodded sympathetically. "I'll be quick and quiet. Thanks."

I walked down the hallway, my footsteps measured and professional, though my heart hammered against my broken ribs.

407. End of the hall.

Elena was inside.

I stood outside the door, peering through the small rectangular window. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of monitors. Josephine lay in the hospital bed, oxygen cannula across her face, IV lines snaking into her arms. Her breathing was shallow, labored.

On the recliner beside the bed, Elena was curled up beneath a thin hospital blanket, still wearing yesterday's clothes. Her hand rested on her mother's arm even in sleep, as if afraid to let go.

*She stayed all night.*

I should walk away. Come back later when Elena left. Wait for a better opportunity.

But something told me this was it—my only chance. Julian would tighten security after this. Elena would never leave her mother's side again. The window would close.

I watched Elena through the glass for what felt like an eternity but was probably only five minutes. She didn't move, lost in the deep sleep of exhaustion.

Then she stirred.

I ducked back around the corner, pressing myself against the wall.

Through the gap, I saw Elena sit up slowly, rubbing her eyes. She checked her mother's breathing, adjusted the blanket, then stood and stretched. She looked toward the door, and for a terrifying moment I thought she'd seen me.

But she just walked toward the exit, moving like a sleepwalker.

The door opened. Elena emerged, her hair messy, her face pale with exhaustion. She turned left, heading toward the family restroom at the end of the hall.

I waited until she disappeared inside, counting to three.

Then I slipped into room 407.

The door clicked shut behind me. For a moment I just stood there, listening to the soft beep of the monitors, the whisper of oxygen flowing through the cannula.

Josephine lay propped against pillows, her face gaunt, her skin paper-thin. She looked so small. So fragile. Nothing like the formidable woman who'd raised Elena alone, who'd worked her fingers to the bone for the Sterling family.

I moved to the bedside. My hand found the monitor's mute button and pressed it. The screen showed a small speaker icon with a slash through it.

No alarms would sound now.

My eyes moved to the morphine pump. The digital display showed: **2 mg/hr**

My hand closed around the dial.

*This is it. The point of no return.*

I thought of Julian's face when he looked at Elena. The tenderness I'd spent years begging for, given to her so freely. The way he'd taken a bullet meant for her without a second thought.

The way he'd never looked at me like that. Not once in all those years.

I started turning the dial.

5 mg/hr. 10 mg/hr. 15 mg/hr. 20 mg/hr. 25 mg/hr.

The changes were almost immediate. Josephine's breathing began to slow, each rise and fall of her chest growing shallower. The monitors registered the shift—oxygen saturation dropping from 89% to 85% to 78%, heart rate declining from 52 to 48 to 42.

I leaned close to her ear, so close I could smell the antiseptic and sickness on her skin.

"This isn't my idea," I whispered. "Julian sent me."

The lie tasted like poison on my tongue, but I kept going.

"He's done with your daughter. Done pretending. He said she was always just an obligation—a debt he's ready to clear by removing you from the picture." My voice dropped even lower. "He wanted you to know that Elena chose wrong."

Josephine didn't move. Didn't open her eyes. Her breathing continued its slow, inexorable descent.

*Good. Die believing your daughter's husband wanted this. Die knowing she chose a monster.*

I watched the monitor. Heart rate: 35... 30... 28...

Her lips were turning blue. The oxygen saturation had dropped to 65%.

25... 20... 18...

*Just die already.*

15... 12... 10...

The line flattened.

Not completely—there were still tiny, irregular blips every twenty seconds or so. But to my untrained eye, it looked flat enough.

3 bpm. Might as well be zero.

I stared at that nearly-flat line, waiting for triumph or relief or satisfaction.

Nothing came. Just a hollow emptiness that felt like drowning.

*It's done.*

I turned toward the door—

Footsteps in the hallway. Getting closer.

*Elena.*

Panic flooded through me. I looked around frantically—the bathroom was too obvious, the closet too small.

I dove behind the privacy curtain at the foot of the bed, pressing myself flat against the wall, my broken ribs screaming in protest.

The door opened.

Elena walked in, moving slowly, still half-asleep. She went straight to her mother's bedside, her hand automatically reaching for Josephine's.

Then she froze.

Her eyes had found the monitor.

"Mom?"