The Billionaire's Roadkill Wife - Chapter 8: Chapter 8
You are reading The Billionaire's Roadkill Wife, Chapter 8: Chapter 8. Read more chapters of The Billionaire's Roadkill Wife.
"Do you like the wedding dress? I bought it for you. But you're not getting me with it. Face it, Lily—you're not getting any younger. Find some stable guy and settle down. Just stay the hell out of my life."
Before she could respond, he hung up and blocked her without a second thought.
Turning to his grandfather with a shit-eating grin, he spread his hands wide. "There. Happy now? Fine, bring Zara and the baby home. I'll even promise to stay in on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays? Those are for—"
The old man trembled with rage at his grandson's smug defiance. Enough was enough—this arrogant bastard needed to be put in his place.
But as he raised his cane, a wave of dizziness slammed into him. Years of stress, heartbreak, and exhaustion finally took their toll.
Clutching his chest, he collapsed.
Jonathan's smirk vanished. His face went pale as he rushed his grandfather to the hospital.
The Richards estate erupted into chaos.
After a grueling night in the ER, the old man stabilized—but he remained in a coma, with no guarantee of when he'd wake.
Standing outside the hospital room, Jonathan lit a cigarette, frustration burning in his chest.
A doctor rushed over to stop him.
Jonathan's eyes narrowed. Then recognition flashed—his grip tightened on the man's collar.
"You—you're that pretty boy Zara went on a date with!" His voice rose, raw with fury. "You've got some nerve showing your face here. Where is she? Did she take my kid and hide with you? Tell her to get her ass here—now!"
The doctor, normally the picture of composure, snapped. His eyes burned with rage.
"You selfish bastard," he spat. "You think your money makes you invincible? That day wasn't a date—she was at the funeral home picking up her mother's ashes. She lost everything in one damn day—her child, her mother. And you still think this is about her hiding from you?"
His voice cracked with fury. "You call yourself a husband? While your wife was living through hell, you were out drinking and screwing around. Are you even human?"
Nurses gathered, their hushed whispers dripping with disdain for Jonathan.
For once, he was speechless. The accusations echoed in his skull, but all he could see was Zara's face that day—hollow, lifeless.
Years of dismissing her pain, of never bothering to look deeper, crashed down on him.
A sharp ache stabbed through his chest, but he clenched his jaw, shaking his head like a stubborn child.
"Bullshit. Zara put you up to this. I don't believe a damn word." His voice wavered. "She loved her mother more than anything. If she'd really died, Zara wouldn't just... shut down. And the baby? She nearly died giving birth. There's no way she'd just walk away."
He wanted—needed—to believe he was right. But dread coiled in his gut, relentless.
He had to prove them wrong.
Before she could respond, he hung up and blocked her without a second thought.
Turning to his grandfather with a shit-eating grin, he spread his hands wide. "There. Happy now? Fine, bring Zara and the baby home. I'll even promise to stay in on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays? Those are for—"
The old man trembled with rage at his grandson's smug defiance. Enough was enough—this arrogant bastard needed to be put in his place.
But as he raised his cane, a wave of dizziness slammed into him. Years of stress, heartbreak, and exhaustion finally took their toll.
Clutching his chest, he collapsed.
Jonathan's smirk vanished. His face went pale as he rushed his grandfather to the hospital.
The Richards estate erupted into chaos.
After a grueling night in the ER, the old man stabilized—but he remained in a coma, with no guarantee of when he'd wake.
Standing outside the hospital room, Jonathan lit a cigarette, frustration burning in his chest.
A doctor rushed over to stop him.
Jonathan's eyes narrowed. Then recognition flashed—his grip tightened on the man's collar.
"You—you're that pretty boy Zara went on a date with!" His voice rose, raw with fury. "You've got some nerve showing your face here. Where is she? Did she take my kid and hide with you? Tell her to get her ass here—now!"
The doctor, normally the picture of composure, snapped. His eyes burned with rage.
"You selfish bastard," he spat. "You think your money makes you invincible? That day wasn't a date—she was at the funeral home picking up her mother's ashes. She lost everything in one damn day—her child, her mother. And you still think this is about her hiding from you?"
His voice cracked with fury. "You call yourself a husband? While your wife was living through hell, you were out drinking and screwing around. Are you even human?"
Nurses gathered, their hushed whispers dripping with disdain for Jonathan.
For once, he was speechless. The accusations echoed in his skull, but all he could see was Zara's face that day—hollow, lifeless.
Years of dismissing her pain, of never bothering to look deeper, crashed down on him.
A sharp ache stabbed through his chest, but he clenched his jaw, shaking his head like a stubborn child.
"Bullshit. Zara put you up to this. I don't believe a damn word." His voice wavered. "She loved her mother more than anything. If she'd really died, Zara wouldn't just... shut down. And the baby? She nearly died giving birth. There's no way she'd just walk away."
He wanted—needed—to believe he was right. But dread coiled in his gut, relentless.
He had to prove them wrong.
End of The Billionaire's Roadkill Wife Chapter 8. Continue reading Chapter 9 or return to The Billionaire's Roadkill Wife book page.