Twice Betrayed- Reborn in Flames - Chapter 8: Chapter 8
You are reading Twice Betrayed- Reborn in Flames, Chapter 8: Chapter 8. Read more chapters of Twice Betrayed- Reborn in Flames.
Three days had passed since the surgery, and Gerald hadn't reached out—not a call, not a text. Then I saw it: Joanne's WhatsApp story, flashing an engagement video like a slap to the face.
He'd proposed at Rose Manor, the very place I'd once dreamed of visiting with him.
Alma was livid. She nearly sent a team to drag Gerald through the streets, but I stopped her, my voice hollow. "Miss Barren, just announce I'm dead."
Maybe it was time to burn the past to the ground. Let Eleanor Whitmore vanish with the rumor of her death.
Alma worked fast. Within half an hour, every news outlet was running the story: Eleanor Whitmore, deceased on the fourth day of the New Year—failed resuscitation, catastrophic blood loss.
Meanwhile, Gerald was at his family's estate, toasting the New Year with Joanne.
"Your priority now," Joanne purred, "is figuring out when Eleanor got pregnant by another man. Don't blame her too much—she was probably just desperate for a baby—"
"Eleanor's dead." Gerald's voice was flat, his phone screen glowing with the viral headline. His face went ghost-white.
Joanne masked her triumph behind a frown. "Do you think she's faking it with the Barrens? Maybe she's upset about our engagement?" She pressed a knife to her wrist, her act flawless. "Gerald, forget about me. Depression won't kill me. I just… I hate that I'll never wear a wedding dress."
Gerald snatched the blade away. "You're right. Eleanor's just throwing a tantrum. The Barrens have the best doctors—she's fine." But his hands shook as he added, "I need to find out who fathered that bastard child."
Joanne smirked and fired off a text to me: [You'll never win, bitch.] Sent. Then—error. I'd already blocked her.
Gerald discovered the same. WhatsApp? Deleted. Calls? Blocked. His next attempt rang straight to voiceless oblivion.
That's when the doubt crept in. He reopened the news article, scanning for tells. As an ER director, he knew real death certificates from forged ones.
With every line he read, his stomach dropped. His fingers trembled. "This can't be real. It was a standard procedure. How could Eleanor—?"
Then it hit him. The director's warning: blood clotting disorder. His phone clattered to the floor, screen cracking like his composure.
He left Joanne mid-sentence, racing to the postpartum center where Alma stayed, bargaining with the universe: Let it be a lie. Let the baby be mine.
In his head, he rewrote the future—the lakeside villa I loved, wrapped as a New Year's gift. Joanne? Shipped overseas, downgraded to holiday visits. And me? Welcomed back, child and all, in time for his birthday.
By the time tears blurred his vision, he was pleading with no one: I didn't mean it. I'd take the kid even if it wasn't mine. Just let her be alive.
But the Barrens' security stopped him cold. Alma watched from the window, baby in arms, as Gerald argued with guards. "Scared now?" she muttered. "Where was this energy before?"
She ordered the director to bar him. For three days, Gerald knelt outside like a penitent. On the fourth night, he left—only to return at dawn with climbing gear, scaling 49 floors like a man possessed.
When his knuckles rapped Alma's door, he collapsed to his knees, raw desperation in every word:
He'd proposed at Rose Manor, the very place I'd once dreamed of visiting with him.
Alma was livid. She nearly sent a team to drag Gerald through the streets, but I stopped her, my voice hollow. "Miss Barren, just announce I'm dead."
Maybe it was time to burn the past to the ground. Let Eleanor Whitmore vanish with the rumor of her death.
Alma worked fast. Within half an hour, every news outlet was running the story: Eleanor Whitmore, deceased on the fourth day of the New Year—failed resuscitation, catastrophic blood loss.
Meanwhile, Gerald was at his family's estate, toasting the New Year with Joanne.
"Your priority now," Joanne purred, "is figuring out when Eleanor got pregnant by another man. Don't blame her too much—she was probably just desperate for a baby—"
"Eleanor's dead." Gerald's voice was flat, his phone screen glowing with the viral headline. His face went ghost-white.
Joanne masked her triumph behind a frown. "Do you think she's faking it with the Barrens? Maybe she's upset about our engagement?" She pressed a knife to her wrist, her act flawless. "Gerald, forget about me. Depression won't kill me. I just… I hate that I'll never wear a wedding dress."
Gerald snatched the blade away. "You're right. Eleanor's just throwing a tantrum. The Barrens have the best doctors—she's fine." But his hands shook as he added, "I need to find out who fathered that bastard child."
Joanne smirked and fired off a text to me: [You'll never win, bitch.] Sent. Then—error. I'd already blocked her.
Gerald discovered the same. WhatsApp? Deleted. Calls? Blocked. His next attempt rang straight to voiceless oblivion.
That's when the doubt crept in. He reopened the news article, scanning for tells. As an ER director, he knew real death certificates from forged ones.
With every line he read, his stomach dropped. His fingers trembled. "This can't be real. It was a standard procedure. How could Eleanor—?"
Then it hit him. The director's warning: blood clotting disorder. His phone clattered to the floor, screen cracking like his composure.
He left Joanne mid-sentence, racing to the postpartum center where Alma stayed, bargaining with the universe: Let it be a lie. Let the baby be mine.
In his head, he rewrote the future—the lakeside villa I loved, wrapped as a New Year's gift. Joanne? Shipped overseas, downgraded to holiday visits. And me? Welcomed back, child and all, in time for his birthday.
By the time tears blurred his vision, he was pleading with no one: I didn't mean it. I'd take the kid even if it wasn't mine. Just let her be alive.
But the Barrens' security stopped him cold. Alma watched from the window, baby in arms, as Gerald argued with guards. "Scared now?" she muttered. "Where was this energy before?"
She ordered the director to bar him. For three days, Gerald knelt outside like a penitent. On the fourth night, he left—only to return at dawn with climbing gear, scaling 49 floors like a man possessed.
When his knuckles rapped Alma's door, he collapsed to his knees, raw desperation in every word:
End of Twice Betrayed- Reborn in Flames Chapter 8. Continue reading Chapter 9 or return to Twice Betrayed- Reborn in Flames book page.