PART 2
Gabriel managed to secretly move me out of that hospital without alerting Christian to my sudden absence.
Officially, my medical records stated that I had been urgently transferred to a specialized burn unit to treat an unexpected severe infection. In reality, a private medical team transported me to a quiet recovery clinic in Cincinnati, where Dr. Jocelyn Pratt, a brilliant burn specialist, took over my care in the middle of the night.
When Dr. Pratt carefully reviewed my initial medical charts, her facial expression hardened with deep concern.
“Did almost nine whole hours seriously pass without any proper reconstructive evaluation for these severe facial burns?” Dr. Pratt asked angrily.
Gabriel lowered his eyes nervously before answering her question.
“There were strict orders from her fiancé’s team to keep her medical treatments to an absolute minimum,” Gabriel admitted quietly.
The doctor looked directly into my eyes with intense compassion.
“I do not care who gave those terrible orders, Genevieve, because no one dictates what happens to your body except you,” Dr. Pratt said firmly.
For the very first time since the horrific attack, I cried tears of genuine relief.
I underwent an immediate emergency surgery where the medical team successfully saved part of my damaged right eyelid and carefully cleaned away the destroyed tissue. The doctor was entirely honest with me, explaining that I faced extensive scarring, long rehabilitation treatments, and multiple reconstructive surgeries.
I held only one urgent question in my heart.
“Will I eventually be able to stand in a courtroom and testify against him?” I asked nervously.
“Yes, you absolutely will,” Dr. Pratt confirmed without hesitation.
“Then please do whatever you have to do to fix me,” I replied courageously.
While I was slowly recovering in isolation, Christian constantly flooded Gabriel’s phone with urgent frantic messages while pretending to be a shattered partner. He even posted a dramatic black-and-white photo on his public social media pages, claiming that the absolute love of his life was fighting bravely for her survival in an ICU unit.
Millions of clueless fans praised him online as the ultimate devoted partner.
I threw up in my hospital basin when I read those fake public posts.
On the fourth day of my stay, Gabriel entered my room and held up a small metallic USB drive.
“I managed to secretly record a portion of what Christian said in your hospital room that night,” Gabriel revealed nervously.
I stared at him with intense anger in my eyes.
“Did you honestly suspect his dark motives before he hired someone to throw acid in my face?” I demanded firmly.
He confessed that he had noticed suspicious financial movements for several weeks, including huge payouts to a woman named Sabrina Croft, a private home purchased in Indianapolis under a shell company, and exclusive private school fees paid for a young child.
“Why on earth didn’t you come to me directly with that information?” I asked bitterly.
“I simply did not possess enough concrete evidence back then,” Gabriel claimed quietly.
“I suppose you didn’t think my face was worth saving until it was already melted off, did you?” I countered harshly.
Gabriel lowered his head in utter shame and remained completely silent.
I could not bring myself to forgive his long silence, but I desperately needed the valuable information he possessed.
Over the following weeks, Gabriel worked closely alongside a sharp criminal attorney named Bridget Vance. They successfully gathered photos of Christian entering Sabrina’s private residence at night, video footage of young Leo calling him daddy, and monthly bank transfers extending back four whole years.
However, the most shocking evidence came from a completely different source.
Attorney Vance managed to legally secure my original gynecological records before Christian’s team could alter the files. The official paperwork revealed unauthorized medical consultations, duplicate prescriptions, and large secret payments made by Christian’s staff directly to Dr. Lawson.
One afternoon, Gabriel walked into my quiet recovery room with a deeply disturbed look on his face.
“We finally tracked down the deleted text exchanges between Christian and the doctor,” Gabriel stated somberly as he handed me a stack of papers.
“We must prevent another pregnancy at all costs before the public wedding occurs,” one message read clearly.
“Make sure to lower her daily dosage because she is already asking suspicious questions about her constant dizziness,” another message detailed.
“Her ongoing suspicion will not matter in the long run because her permanent reproductive damage is already done,” the doctor had callously replied.
My trembling hands froze as I read those horrific words over and over.
Those documents proved that my painful miscarriages were neither an unpredictable tragedy nor the result of a weak body.
They had been deliberately caused by the man who promised to protect me.
To make matters worse, Attorney Vance pointed out a final text message sent just two days before my attack.
“Make the assault look like the reckless work of an obsessed fanatic, target only her face, and ensure you do not kill her,” the order stated.
The text was sent directly to Christian’s personal assistant, whom the police were already actively searching for across state lines.
I foolishly assumed that I finally comprehended the full extent of the nightmare.
Attorney Vance closed her thick case folder and looked at me with grave seriousness.
“No, Genevieve, this dark discovery merely scratches the surface of how this conspiracy began,” Attorney Vance explained calmly. “What we are uncovering about the wedding finances, Sabrina, and his offshore accounts will completely destroy everything Christian built.”
At that exact second, my private cell phone began to ring from an unknown telephone number.
I pressed the receiver to my ear without saying a word.
“Genevieve, I am fully aware that you are awake and hiding from me,” Christian said coldly over the line.
Before I could even process his creepy tone, he uttered a threatening sentence that proved he knew we had uncovered his darkest secrets.
