Page 118 of Jealous Billionaire's Endless Regret

She wiped her tears with the back of her shaking hand and stood abruptly, pacing in her silk robe, her mind racing faster thanher heart. Her reflection in the mirror looked foreign—wild hair, red-rimmed eyes, desperation painted all over her face.

One hour later, she pushed open the door to the fertility clinic with force, drawing startled glances from the receptionist. Her heels clicked aggressively across the sterile tiles as she stormed toward the examination room.

The doctor barely had time to look up before she dropped into the chair opposite him, her back stiff, jaw locked tight with frustration.

“Have you checked my reports yet?” she asked, her tone flat, clipped. “I want to get pregnant as soon as possible. Is my body ready for it? Just give me whatever injections are needed to make sure I conceive in one try.”

Her hands gripped the edge of his desk tightly, knuckles white. Her nails dug into the wood as her eyes gleamed—not with joy or excitement, but with manic determination.

‘All I need is one night. If I get Lorenzo to sleep with me just once… if I have his child, he’ll marry me. He won’t have a choice.’

The doctor’s expression shifted slowly, his features tightening with concern. He removed his glasses and set them aside with care.

“Miss Esther,” he began, his voice soft, almost hesitant. “I’ve gone through your test results thoroughly.”

A pause.

“They’re not good.”

Esther blinked. Her breath caught, but she didn’t move. The air in the room felt suddenly heavy.

“What do you mean?”

The doctor leaned forward, his voice growing more somber. “You won’t be able to conceive. I’m sorry… but your reproductive system has completely shut down. And worse…” He hesitated. “Your organs are shutting down, too.”

“What?” she whispered, her voice brittle, like thin glass ready to crack.

“Have you been taking any unprescribed medications? Hormonal enhancers, blood thinners, maybe something off the record?” he asked gently. “Because prolonged use of certain drugs can cause irreversible damage.”

He sighed and continued. “Whatever you were taking… it has severely damaged your liver, kidneys, and other systems. You’ll need multiple organ transplants. Without them…” He stopped briefly, letting the words settle. “You have about three months.”

Esther’s world tilted.

Her lips parted in disbelief. The color drained from her face. “That... that’s not possible. I’m going to be Mrs. Moretti soon…”

She sounded like a child reciting a dream she’d told herself one too many times.

The doctor’s voice was filled with regret. “I’m truly sorry. You need to be admitted immediately so we can begin treatment and put you on the transplant list.”

But something shifted behind Esther’s eyes. The panic gave way to fury.

With a sudden scream, she shot up from her chair and slammed her palm down on the desk. A tray of papers and metalinstruments clattered to the floor, echoing through the room like shattered glass.

“You’re lying! Trying to scare me? I don’t believe you!” she screamed, eyes blazing. “I’m fine. Perfectly fine! I don’t need your damn pity or your made-up diagnosis!”

She didn’t wait for the doctor to respond. She spun around and stormed out of the room, her heels clacking furiously, mind spiraling into chaos as the haunting shadow of her crumbling reality chased her down the hall.

***

Krystal was halfway through a yawn when the doorbell rang, slicing through the quiet like a sharp knock against her nerves.

Startled, she blinked blearily at the clock. Just after dinner. She’d dozed off on the couch under a blanket, warm and drowsy, the glow of the TV flickering in the background.

With a groggy frown, she pushed herself off the cushions and padded toward the door, her bare feet light against the floor. She unlocked it and pulled it open—only to freeze mid-motion.

Lorenzo stood on the doorstep.

A lunchbox dangled from one hand. His sleeves were rolled up, veins visible down his forearms. His charcoal slacks sat low on his hips like he hadn’t bothered with a belt. And his hair—usually slicked back and precise—was tousled, falling into his forehead in soft waves.

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