The Ex-Wife's Redemption: A Love Reborn Chapter 83

Tears welled up in my eyes, my body trembling uncontrollably beneath him. The silk bindings cut into my wrists as I struggled, my voice breaking with each plea.

This wasn't the man I had married—this was a stranger, his eyes darkened with a primitive rage I had never seen before.

My fear seemed to feed something dark within him. Rather than softening at my tears, his expression hardened, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The thin trail of blood from his forehead wound gave him an almost demonic appearance in the dim bedroom light.

"Hate me?" he whispered, his voice chillingly calm as he brought his face closer to mine. "You think I care about your feelings anymore, Sophia?"

His hand traced a path down my bare stomach, making me flinch away from his touch. "I've given you everything—a name, a home, protection for your bastard son. And how do you repay me? With constant suspicion and disrespect."

I closed my eyes, unable to bear the contempt on his face.

Just as his weight shifted, positioning himself to force entry, his phone rang again—Isabella's distinctive ringtone breaking the tension in the room.

Henry cursed under his breath, momentarily distracted by the persistent ringing.

"Ignore it," I whispered desperately. "If you really don't care about her, ignore it."

The phone continued ringing insistently. With a frustrated growl, Henry reached for it, his other hand still pinning me down.

"What now?" he barked into the phone.

The frantic voice on the other end was loud enough that I could clearly hear the panic. "Mr. Harding, you need to come immediately! Miss Scott has collapsed! The doctors are rushing in, her vitals are dropping rapidly!"

Henry's expression changed instantly, his body tensing. "I'll be right there."

He hung up and immediately began dressing, all thoughts of our confrontation apparently forgotten. I watched in stunned silence as he hastily buttoned his shirt, combed his hair, and straightened his tie—transforming back into the polished businessman in mere seconds.

As he headed for the door, I called out, my voice hoarse from crying, "Henry! Untie me!"

He paused, turning to look at me with cold indifference. His eyes traveled over my bound wrists, my tear-streaked face, my exposed body—and he simply walked out, closing the door behind him with a decisive click.

I lay there, shocked beyond comprehension at what had just happened. He had left me tied to the bed, helpless and humiliated, all because Isabella needed him.

When Henry arrived, the hospital corridor buzzed with frantic activity. Doctors and nurses rushed in and out of Isabella's private suite, medical equipment beeping urgently. The chaos stood in stark contrast to the usual hushed atmosphere of the luxury wing.

Henry stood at the entrance, momentarily frozen by the scene before him. Isabella lay unconscious on the bed, oxygen mask covering her pale face, medical staff gathered around her.

"What happened?" he demanded of a nearby nurse.

"Her blood pressure dropped suddenly," the nurse explained hurriedly. "She's stabilizing now, but it was touch-and-go for a while."

A weight of guilt settled in Henry's chest. Had his neglect caused this? Was he responsible for Isabella's deteriorating condition?

When the medical team gradually filtered out, leaving only essential monitoring staff, Henry found himself alone in the hallway. He stepped onto the small balcony outside, lighting a cigarette with slightly trembling hands.

The nicotine did little to calm his racing thoughts. Strangely, as he stood there watching smoke curl into the night sky, it wasn't Isabella's pale face that occupied his mind, but Sophia's tearful eyes. The image of her bound to their bed, tears streaming down her face, pleading with him not to make her hate him.

In six years of marriage, he had never seen Sophia truly cry. She had always maintained her dignity, swallowing her pain, facing his coldness with quiet resilience. Tonight was different. Seeing her tears had awakened something primal within him—not compassion, but a disturbing desire to completely possess her.

What kind of monster am I becoming? The question floated through his mind, carried away with the cigarette smoke into the night air.

The door behind him opened, and a doctor stepped out, removing his surgical mask with a relieved expression.

"Mr. Harding? Miss Scott is stable now."

Henry nodded, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. "Can I see her?"

"Yes, but briefly. She needs rest and absolutely no excitement or stress."

When Henry entered the hospital room, Isabella's eyes immediately filled with tears. She reached out a pale hand, which he automatically took in his own.

"You came," she whispered, her voice fragile. "I was afraid you wouldn't."

What Henry didn't know was that Isabella was calculating even in her desperation. When the caretaker first called Henry. Though she couldn't hear Sophia's voice, Isabella had detected the impatience and urgency in Henry's tone—the voice he used when he desperately wanted something, when he was being interrupted doing something he didn't want to stop.

This realization had devastated her.

Henry was with Sophia—not just in her presence, but making love to her. Isabella could sense it. Despite all her efforts to seduce Henry since her return, he had remained unmoved.

Yet Sophia's body had him enthralled.

Men are creatures unable to separate sex from love.

Despite Henry's claims of indifference toward Sophia, when had he ever touched another woman?

Isabella felt a sense of imminent danger.

"I was so frightened," Isabella confessed, her voice perfectly trembling. "When I feel alone, the symptoms always get worse."

Henry sat beside her bed, guilt etched across his features. "I should have been here sooner."

Isabella seized the opportunity. "It wasn't your fault. It was your grandfather who forced me to leave five years ago, not Sophia. I should have told you sooner, but I was afraid."

Henry's eyes widened at this revelation. "What are you saying?"

"Your grandfather threatened to cut you off completely if I didn't leave," she explained, tears now flowing freely. "He said your heart condition would worsen under the stress of defying him. I left to protect you, Henry. Not because I wanted to."

The lies flowed easily from her lips, carefully calculated to drive a wedge between Henry and his family—including Sophia.

"Please," Isabella whispered, clutching his hand tighter. "Don't leave me alone tonight. I'm afraid it will happen again."

After a moment's hesitation, Henry nodded. "I'll stay."

In the room's far corner, Nancy lingered in the shadows, observing this interaction with calculating eyes. As Henry settled into the chair beside Isabella's bed, Nancy discreetly removed her phone from her pocket. With practiced stealth, she captured several photos of the intimate scene—Henry holding Isabella's hand, leaning close to her, their foreheads nearly touching in apparent tenderness.

Within minutes, these carefully framed images appeared online with inflammatory captions, suggesting Henry had abandoned his wife to be with his true love during a medical emergency.

Comments flooded in: "That poor sick woman needs him!" "His wife is so selfish to compete with someone fighting for her life!" "Sophia Wilson is a homewrecker who stole Henry from Isabella years ago!"

Back at Maple Grove, I finally managed to free myself from the bindings after nearly an hour of painful struggling. My wrists were raw and bleeding slightly, but the physical pain paled in comparison to the emotional devastation.

I moved silently through the darkened house, entering Billy's room, gently lifting my sleeping son into my arms, cradling him against my chest as he murmured softly in his dreams. He instinctively curled into me, trusting and innocent.

"We're leaving, sweetheart," I whispered, though he couldn't hear me. "And this time, we're not coming back."