Please Come Back, My Love Chapter 59

Julian：POV

The hospital room smells like antiseptic and fear.

I stand by the window, fists clenched, while the doctor examines Elena. She's been unconscious for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of hell.

The monitors beep steadily. Her chest rises and falls. But she hasn't opened her eyes since the ambulance.

*Please. Please be okay.*

"Mr. Sterling." The doctor looks up, clipboard in hand. Her expression is carefully neutral. "Your wife is stable. The drowning didn't cause any permanent damage to her lungs. She'll need monitoring for the next twenty-four hours, but—"

"And the baby?" My voice comes out hoarse.

The doctor's expression softens. "The baby is fine. Strong heartbeat. **Twelve weeks along**, perfectly healthy."

*Twelve weeks.*

The number hits me like a freight train. Three months. She's been carrying our child for three fucking months and I didn't know.

*I told her she wasn't worthy of carrying my child.*

My legs nearly give out. I grip the window frame, knuckles white.

"Mr. Sterling, are you alright?"

"I'm fine." I'm not fine. I'm the furthest thing from fine. "Can I... can I see her?"

"Of course. But please keep it quiet. She needs rest."

I cross to the bed. Elena looks so small against the white sheets, her hair still damp, skin pale. There's a bruise forming on her temple where Catherine—

*I'll destroy her. I'll destroy anyone who touches Elena.*

I reach out, hesitant, and brush my fingers against her hand. Her skin is cold.

"I'm not leaving," I say quietly. "Whatever happens—I'm not leaving. Not this time."

Behind me, the door opens.

"Julian."

I turn. Josephine stands in the doorway, her face drawn, eyes red from crying. She looks smaller than I've ever seen her. Fragile.

"Mrs. Vance—"

"Don't." She holds up a hand, stepping into the room. "Just... don't."

She moves to Elena's other side, taking her daughter's hand. For a long moment, we stand in silence, both of us watching the rise and fall of Elena's chest.

"She told me once," Josephine says softly, "that loving you was like trying to hold water in her hands. No matter how tightly she gripped, you just... slipped away."

The words are a knife between my ribs.

"I'm going to fix this," I say. "I swear to God, I'm—"

"How?" Josephine looks up at me, and there's no anger in her eyes anymore. Just exhaustion. Sadness. "How are you going to fix three years of cruelty? Of making her feel worthless? Of running to another woman every time she needed you?"

"I was wrong. About everything. The yacht party, the photos, Victoria—all of it. I was fucking blind."

"You were willfully blind." Her voice is gentle but cutting. "You wanted to believe the worst of her because it made things easier. If she was a gold-digger, a schemer, then you didn't have to feel guilty about not loving her."

*Not loving her.* The words echo in my head. Do I love Elena? I don't know. I've never thought about it that way. She's my property. My responsibility.

But love?

I don't even know what that means anymore.

"Mrs. Vance—"

"You know what the worst part is?" Josephine's hands tremble as she strokes Elena's hair. "I encouraged her to stay. All these years, when she'd come home crying, when she'd show up with bruises on her heart if not her body—I told her to be patient. To give you time. That things would get better."

Her voice breaks.

"I told my daughter to keep loving a man who treated her like trash. What kind of mother does that?"

"You were trying to help—"

"I was wrong." She looks at me, tears streaming down her face. "I was so fucking wrong. And now she's lying here, pregnant and alone, because I told her to wait for a miracle that was never going to come."

The accusation hangs in the air between us.

I want to argue. To defend myself. To say that I'll change, that I'll be better, that I'll give Elena everything she deserves.

But the words stick in my throat.

"Julian." Josephine's voice is quiet now, resigned. "I know you think you can fix this. That you can apologize and buy her things and make everything okay. But that's not how this works."

"Then tell me how it works."

"You let her go."

*No.*

The refusal is immediate, visceral. The thought of Elena leaving—of waking up and not knowing where she is, if she's safe, if she needs me—makes my chest constrict.

"She's carrying my child—"

"A child you told her she wasn't worthy of carrying." Josephine's eyes flash. "A child she's been terrified to tell you about because she knew—she **knew**—you'd make her get rid of it."

"I would never—"

"Wouldn't you?" She leans forward. "Be honest, Julian. If Elena had told you about this baby a week ago, before all this happened—what would you have done?"

The question hangs in the air.

And I can't answer it.

Because a week ago, I would have been furious. I would have accused her of trying to trap me. Of breaking our contract. Of ruining everything.

*I would have done exactly what she feared.*

"That's what I thought." Josephine's voice is sad. "**You know, I've watched my daughter suffer these past three years. She's been so unhappy, but she always put on a brave face for me. Always smiled and said things would get better. I told her to be patient. To wait. That you'd come around eventually.**"

She wipes her eyes.

"**But now I see that was wrong. If being with you only brings her pain—if you can't give her what she needs—then I'm begging you to let her go. You're from different worlds, Julian. She's the housekeeper's daughter, and you're... you're a Sterling. She can't reach you. She never could.**"

"That doesn't matter—"

"**It does."** Josephine's voice is firm. "**I'm moving out of the estate tomorrow. I can't watch her destroy herself for you anymore.**"

"You don't have to leave—"

"Yes, I do." She moves toward the door, pausing with her hand on the handle. "Because every time Elena comes home to visit, she'll see me in that servants' cottage. She'll remember growing up there, watching you from across the lawn, thinking she could never have you."

She looks back at me one last time.

"Let her go, Julian. If you care about her at all—if you have even an ounce of decency—you'll sign those divorce papers and let her build a life somewhere far away from you."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"Because she's mine." The words come out raw, desperate. I don't understand them myself. I just know they're true. "She's my wife. My responsibility. I'm not walking away."