Chapter 10

Because of the earlier sedatives, they couldn't use anesthesia during surgery.

I woke up from the pain several times.

Each time I tried to cry out, I caught a glimpse of a familiar figure in the corner of my eye.

Michael stood beside me in sterile scrubs, his grip on my hand tightening.

Even with a mask covering his face,

the anxiety and worry poured from his eyes.

For a dazed moment, it felt like we were eighteen again.

The surgery took three hours. The self-inflicted wounds on my thigh had become infected from crawling through the filthy factory, and the stress had triggered a severe allergic reaction—remnants of the mango cake exposure that my body had been silently fighting for weeks.

When I woke up fully, the room was dark. An IV dripped beside me. My body felt like it had been through a war.

Michael was asleep in a chair, his hand still wrapped around mine.

His hand was bandaged—the glass he'd crushed at the family banquet.

On the bedside table sat a folder. The divorce papers. Still unsigned.

But next to them was something else: a police report.

I picked it up with my free hand.

The investigation had moved fast. The kidnapping was organized by the rival family—the same client Olivia had casually shared Noah's schedule with.

And there, in black and white, was Olivia's name.

Not as a suspect. As a person of interest.

She hadn't planned the kidnapping. But her carelessness—or was it deliberate?—had made it possible.

Michael stirred. His eyes opened, unfocused at first, then sharpening when he saw me awake.

"Amanda—"

"I read the report."

He went very still.

"Olivia gave them Noah's location. Whether she knew what they'd do with it or not—she gave it to them."

"I know." His voice was raw. Destroyed. "I confronted her. She said it was an accident. That she didn't realize—"

"And you believe her?"

He didn't answer. Which was answer enough.

"Do you remember what I said when we were eighteen?" I whispered. "If you want to separate someday, give me mangoes."

His eyes filled with tears.

"You sent me a mango cake, Michael. Through the woman who nearly got our son killed."

"I didn't know—Amanda, I swear I told her no mangoes—"

"I know you did. She ignored you. She's been ignoring the truth about herself for years, and you let her. Because it was easier to believe she was kind than to admit you let a snake into our home."

He pressed his forehead against our joined hands and cried.

The great Michael George. The man who never showed weakness. Crying in a hospital chair because he'd finally run out of excuses.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry."

"I know." I pulled my hand away gently. "But sorry doesn't undo the mango cake. It doesn't undo the years of loneliness. It doesn't undo Noah crying for me while Olivia played mother."

"What can I do?"

"Sign the papers."