In Room 302, Malcolm Fotheringham was fighting a war against gravity. He had ripped the IV lines from his arm, blood trickling down his wrist, and was attempting to button his shirt with trembling fingers.
“I am leaving,” Malcolm snarled at the nurse trying to restrain him. “Get my car.”
“You aren’t going anywhere,” a voice commanded from the doorway.
Isabella Moretti stood there, blocking the exit with her body. She placed a hand over her pregnant belly, staring him down with the fire that had drawn him to her in London.
“Move, Bella,” Malcolm warned, swaying on his feet. “I will not let him play the hero. I will not be the charity case of William Croft.”
“This isn’t about your pride, Malcolm!” Isabella shouted, pushing him back toward the bed. “This is about him.” She pointed to her stomach. “If you walk out that door, you die. And our son grows up knowing his father chose his ego over his family. Is that the legacy you want? The man who was too proud to live?”
Malcolm froze. The “Usurper” crumbled, replaced by a terrified man realizing he was out of time. He sank back onto the mattress, burying his face in his hands. “I hate him,” he whispered brokenly. “I hate that he has everything.”
“He doesn’t have this,” Isabella said softly, sitting beside him. “Let him save you so you can earn it.”