The Man I Mourned for Six Years, the Man She’s Been Living With Chapter 04

The Man I Mourned for Six Years, the Man She’s Been Living With Chapter 04

There was no time to grieve. I turned and ran like I’d lost my mind back toward the hospital.

The elevator was taking forever, so I ran for the stairwell.

On the third floor, a group of people who said they were reporters suddenly appeared and surrounded me.

“Ms. Hart, is it true that you’ve been obsessing over a married man and your mental state has deteriorated to the point of delusions about his death?”

“Former classmates say you grew up an orphan, getting by on collecting recyclables. Is that accurate?”

“You knew Mr. Whitmore was married, yet you deliberately harassed him and spread lies. Do you have a response to that?”

Camera flashes went off one after another, blinding me.

The harsh questions made my ears ring and my head throb with pain.

I was drenched in sweat. I desperately tried to push through the crowd, my voice cracking with tears. “Please, just let me through! I have an emergency.”

“My mother is dying. She needs surgery right now. I’m begging you.”

They just kept blocking me, taking photos, demanding the answers they wanted.

In the scuffle, my phone fell and was crushed underfoot.

I bent down to pick it up, and someone slapped me hard across the face.

“A pathetic homewrecker like you doesn’t deserve a family. Using your mother as an excuse for sympathy? Disgusting.”

The woman who hit me had a vicious tone, her eyes full of contempt and hatred.

My head spun from the slap, my cheek burning. Despair and rage washed over me.

Just then, hospital security ran up and shouted, “This is a hospital. Leave now, or we’re calling the police.”

In the chaos, I sprinted up the stairs.

But when I burst into the hospital room, all the strength drained from my body.

My foster mother lay motionless on the bed, her face pale as paper, her lips colorless.

The attending doctor stood beside her, his expression heavy with regret.

When he saw me, he sighed softly and said in a heavy voice, “Ms. Hart, I’m so sorry. We did everything we could.”

My vision blurred. The room went dark, and I almost collapsed.

A nurse steadied me and quietly explained, “She was doing fine just an hour ago. Then a woman came in, they argued, and your mother went into cardiac arrest.”

“When you didn’t show up to sign the papers, we activated the emergency protocol, but the donor suddenly backed out.”

Grief crushed me until I could barely breathe, but I couldn’t make a sound.

I slowly pulled away from the nurse and walked to the bedside, taking my foster mother’s cold hand.

The woman who had given me warmth and strength during my hardest times would never open her eyes again.

I arranged her cremation myself. After she was cremated, I buried her in a quiet cemetery.

After saying my final goodbye, I dragged my numb body to the Ravenswood Bridge. I recorded a video and scheduled it to post.

Then, without a second thought, I jumped.

Ethan was in the obstetrics department, accompanying Aria to a prenatal checkup. They were discussing baby names.

His phone rang. His assistant’s panicked voice came through. “Mr. Whitmore, it’s Olivia. She jumped off the bridge.”