Chapter 142
Harry
"He's alive."
Mason's voice cuts through the white noise of the television. I don't realize I've been holding my breath until my lungs burn, and I gasp out the air like I've been underwater for hours.
"I—" My voice cracks. "I was so worried."
Mason doesn't hesitate; his arms wrap tight around me, grounding me in his warmth. He presses his chin lightly to my temple, and for a moment I let myself sink into him, trembling.
"Of course he's alive," he says, and there's a rough edge under his steady tone that tells me he's been just as terrified.
"You know Ivan. He's stubborn as hell. If nothing else, he'd survive out of spite just to give his in-laws a headache."
Despite myself, a laugh bubbles out of me—sad and shaky. "That… sounds like him."
We've been glued to the TV since the moment the explosion hit the news. Every channel ran the same breaking report: a penthouse building in ruins, rescue teams pulling bodies out of rubble. For hours, the only updates were fragments and speculation.
Zander Vale never left the site. In every grainy, dust-filled frame on screen, he was there—covered in sweat and dirt, clawing through rubble with his bare hands. The media called it romantic, broadcasting slow-motion clips with headlines like: 'Love Against All Odds – Billionaire Fights for Husband in Rubble.'
But all I could think about was how Ivan might be buried alive, gasping for air under collapsed concrete, and how much that man has already survived. It's not romance; it's cruelty that they had to go through that.
Mason strokes my back absentmindedly, his eyes on the muted television. "They've taken him to the ICU. That means he's stable enough for surgery or observation. That's good."
I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat. "I hope… I hope he makes a full recovery."
On the screen, the reporters are still talking, their voices muted, words spinning on the ticker below: Explosion's cause under investigation. Billionaire's husband rescued after 42 hours.
***
Zander
I stand outside the ICU window, watching my entire world lying motionless on a hospital bed.
Ivan looks so small beneath the sheets. His arm is immobilized, wrapped in thick bandages; a brace holds his neck steady. Monitors beep steadily, each sound a reminder that he's alive, that his heart still fights even if he's too weak to open his eyes yet.
A broken arm. A fractured cervical vertebra. A concussion. Deep lacerations and bruising across his delicate skin. A shattered leg that required pins and rods. And yet… he's alive. The baby is alive.
They told me it's a miracle. No—he's the miracle.
Apparently, they survived because Maksim threw himself over Ivan when the walls collapsed. He took the brunt of it all. His right leg couldn't be saved. His back is stripped raw, skin shredded by falling debris. I've already called the best reconstructive surgeons in the world; I don't care what it costs. Nothing could ever repay what Maksim did for us—not in this life or the next.
I press a hand against the glass, tracing the faint curve of Ivan's bandaged stomach with my eyes. My chest feels like it's caving in.
I almost lost them.
I feel physically ill at the thought.
Everyone keeps parroting the same line: gasexplosion. As if I'm a fool. As if I don't know the world I was raised in.
Gas explosion? My fucking ass.
This wasn't an accident. It was a warning. A message. And the only reason they dared to try was because I've allowed my family too much rope, and they finally decided to hang me with it.
This is on me.
My fists clench so tight my knuckles pop. I won't make the same mistake twice. I almost lost my husband and my child because I underestimated just how deep their malice runs.
Never again.
The thought of leaving Ivan's side makes me nauseous, but this can't wait. I can't protect him lying in that hallway like a helpless bystander.
I step out of the hospital into sunlight that feels like fire against my skin. My chest aches from more than just exhaustion; the guilt burns hotter than anything.
A sleek black sedan glides to the curb. My driver opens the back door without a word.
I slide in, the leather sticking to my sweat-streaked palms. My reflection in the tinted window doesn't look like me; I see a feral man, dust-streaked and hollow-eyed, running on grief and rage.