𝐑𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐧 𝐎𝐟 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐨𝐬 [𝟏𝟖+] ✓

26

It's been a while since I killed a character 🙃

 Kate isn't pregnant. 7k words chapter lmao. 

Trigger Warning: Self harm

━━━━━━━━━♚━━━━━━━━━

Hayden Evans

The constant buzzing of my phone was miffing me positively. Burying the grunt of irritation that rose in my throat, I pulled my phone out of my trouser pockets and scanned the screen. There were messages and calls from my mother, Saoirse, Jennifer, and Miguel. Pursuing my lips, I pushed the notifications aside.

What was up with these people?

As the raw materials team manager explained about the linen, he thought would catch the customer's eye, I peered out of the window at the busy roads of London. I was positive there wasn't any sign of a meteorite crashing or a volcanic eruption or a raging flood or any calamities. Then why were these people annoying me?

I was regretting not powering off my phone.

My phone buzzed again, and I looked at the contact, pulling my brows closer. Although my instincts were to decline the call, my finger slid across the green button, answering the call. Excusing myself from the meeting, I strolled out of the conference room, wedging the device between my ear and shoulder.

"Katrina, are you okay?"

"No," the voice sounded panicked, but it didn't belong to Katrina. "Hayden, Kate is—"

"What happened?" I asked calmly, recognising Saoirse's voice immediately.

"Kate is in a hospital—"

"Where?" Icy anger coursed through my veins with visceral vengefulness. "Text me the details; I'm on my way."

Adrenaline flooding through my system like an enormous ocean with the potency to drown any ship that's in its way. I made my way to the lift as Saoirse fed me about the details. Connecting to my AirPods and jamming them into my ears, I texted my assistant, Joan, to call off the meeting.

Exactly eight minutes later, I found myself outside Katrina's hospital room, leaning against a wall, enveloped by the scent of dried bleach and even fresh blood. As worry chewed through me, I let my eyes drift from the highly polished white tiles to the glass that gave me a view of the ICU room where a fragile figure was lying on the hospital bed, fighting for her life.

A broken rib. Scalp laceration. Sprained ankle. And multiple thorn punctures. When Katrina had fallen from the first floor, if there weren't any bushes in the garden below, then her fall wouldn't have been cushioned and she would have been shot dead.

There was no way she fell on her backside if she attempted suicide — assuming she was driven by Diaval. Katrina hadn't tried to end her life. Someone had pushed her.