Chapter 170 - ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY

Chapter 170: Chapter ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY

ANGEL

The doctor finally approved my discharge.

I was healed to some reasonable extent, at least from the bullet wound. The stitches in my palm had dissolved, leaving behind a scar that would fade with time—a permanent souvenir of my own stupidity.

But I was far from fine.

Something was wrong. It had been eating at my sanity for the past days, gnawing at the edges of my mind like a rat trapped inside my skull.

Physically and psychologically.

One of my concerns was that something was wrong with the baby.

It should have been easier to ask the nurses—they came and went often enough, checking vitals, adjusting my pillows, and giving me their usual professional smiles.

The problem was that I didn’t want to say anything with Daddy nearby.

And Daddy was always nearby.

He hadn’t left the room since we arrived. Sleeping in that uncomfortable chair by my bed when he slept at all, which wasn’t often. Watching me with those dark, intense eyes that tracked my every movement like I was prey that might bolt at any moment. He ate when I ate. Showered only when I was asleep—and even then, I suspected he kept the bathroom door open just in case.

The baby—which was the elephant in the room that neither of us would acknowledge—remained unspoken. Since he wasn’t bringing it up, I didn’t want to be the first. The silence between us on that subject had grown so thick it felt like another presence in the room.

The internet helped though.

That was when I first realized something strange.

Isn’t the bump too small for how far along I was supposed to be?

I’d spent hours scrolling through pregnancy forums and medical websites when Daddy finally dozed off in his chair.

I’d placed my hand on my stomach, comparing what I felt to the images on my screen. The math didn’t add up. The size didn’t match. Could it be that the baby was not developing properly? Should I ask the doctor? But what if Daddy got offended—what if bringing up the baby shattered whatever fragile peace we’d built?

This was one problem, and honestly, it was the lesser of what I was feeling.

My main concern was the nightmares. They didn’t end. If anything, they had gotten worse—more vivid, more real, bleeding into my waking hours until I couldn’t tell where sleep ended and consciousness began. The nightmares had escaped from my dreams and become real.

I could feel it. A prickling at the back of my neck. A sense of being watched. Eyes on me that shouldn’t exist, but felt so real that I caught myself scanning the room for threats.

The windows. The doors. The shadows in the corners.

I started seeing things.

Movement in the corners of my vision, a figure standing in the doorway that vanished when I turned to look—there one second, gone the next, leaving only the faint impression of grey eyes.

Once, I woke in the middle of the night and saw someone standing at the foot of my bed.

Tall. Dark hair. Grey eyes glinting in the dim light from the monitors.

I opened my mouth to scream—

And Daddy shifted in his chair beside me, and the figure was gone, and I realized it had just been a shadow. Just a trick of the light. It was my broken mind still playing Damien’s games with me even though he was probably rotting somewhere by now.

I didn’t tell Vincenzo about the things I saw.

Daddy had been through a lot and the last thing I wanted was to trouble him with the fact that I was losing my mind.

I didn’t want to see sadness in those dark eyes. Didn’t want him to look at me like I was something broken beyond repair.

So I kept quiet. Smiled when he asked if I was okay. My answer was the same every time: I was fine, just tired and still adjusting.

He didn’t believe me. I could see it in his face each time I told him that—the way his brow furrowed, the way his lips pressed into a thin line. He would look frustrated and guilty, but I didn’t think it was directed at me. More as though he blamed himself for everything that had happened to me. Like he thought he should have found me sooner and protected me better.

I was being discharged today, and we still hadn’t talked about the baby at all. It was almost as though if we both ignored it enough, we could pretend like it didn’t exist. Like my growing belly was just another trick of the light.

The nurse walked in cheerfully, carrying a change of clothes—a soft sweater and loose pants.

"We are glad you’ve recovered," she smiled.

I was almost tempted to ask her. The question sat on the tip of my tongue: Is the baby okay? Is it the right size? Is something wrong?

I looked at Daddy from the corner of my eye. He was staring at me, those dark eyes fixated on me like he could penetrate my thoughts.

The words died in my throat instantly.

"I’ll go change in the bathroom," I mumbled, accepting the fresh clothes. The fabric was soft against my fingers, but I barely felt it.

Vincenzo stood immediately, helping me out of bed, his hands steadying me as I found my balance on unsteady legs. His grip was firm but gentle, and I could feel the tension running through him like a live wire.

"I can walk you—"

"Daddy." I smiled shakily, placing my hand on his chest. "It’s just the bathroom. I can manage. I promise."

He didn’t look convinced. His jaw worked, and I could see the war playing out behind his eyes. Reluctantly, he nodded.

"I’ll be right here," he said finally.

"I’ll call if I need anything." I told him.

He let me go. Hesitantly. His hands lingering on my waist until the last possible moment.

Honestly, I didn’t want him in the bathroom with me, because I didn’t want him to see the bump, it was probably dumb, but yeah.

I walked to the bathroom which was only ten feet away and closed the door.

The bathroom was elegant, like everything else in this place. Marble countertops veined with gold. A rainfall shower big enough for three people.

I set the clothes on the counter and took a breath, steadying myself.

That was when I looked up at the mirror.

And froze.

The glass was fogged, condensation clouding the surface, turning my reflection into something blurry.

That’s strange. I didn’t run hot water. I didn’t even turn on the water at all.

But the mirror was fogged anyway. Like someone had just taken a steaming shower. The air was thick with heat that I couldn’t feel—but that pressed against my skin like invisible hands.

I reached out to wipe the condensation away.

And saw him.