His Regret Bound My Ghost to His Side

Chapter 7

The emergency room lights finally dimmed. The doctor peeled off his mask, his voice grave. "She's stabilized for now, but we're moving her to the ICU. The drug dosage wasn't fatal, and her heart's untouched. Now it's up to her fighting spirit."

Silas collapsed onto the hallway bench, fingers clawing through his hair like a man drowning in despair.

Lila materialized at his side, her soothing hand patting his back. "Silas, don't torture yourself. Sybil's a fighter—she'll make it." A calculated pause.

"But... Elara crossed a line this time. Actually trying to kill her? Thank God that nurse grew a spine, or we'd be planning a funeral."

Her words were a match to his powder keg of rage.

Silas erupted from the bench, eyes black with fury, already striding toward Elara's prison.

Bound spread-eagle on the medical bed, Elara looked like death warmed over—pale as moonlight, purple fingerprints still branding her throat.

Her voice scraped raw as she struggled: "Even if you've convicted me in your heart, Silas, at least let the courts do it properly!"

His laugh was arctic. "Prison? You don't deserve that mercy."

He crowded over her, casting a predator's shadow. "First the accidents, now poisoning? I should've broken you years ago."

To the hulking bodyguard. "The machine. Full power until she admits everything."

The device buzzed to life. Current lanced through her. Every nerve shrieked—white-hot, unrelenting. Her body jackknifed against the restraints, teeth sinking into her lip until copper flooded her tongue. Still, not a whimper escaped.

Watching her face contort, Silas felt a knife-twist of guilt. He spun away, jaw clenched. "Again!"

The door slammed behind him.

Three days. Seventy-two hours of alternating between searing agony and black oblivion. The stench of burnt flesh clung to her.

If she died here, Elias would rot in some hospital bed. Lila would keep playing the saint.

Everything she'd bled for would go up in flames.

On day four, when the door creaked open, Elara didn't fight.

Her hair hung in greasy strands, plastered to her feverish skin. "My fault," she rasped, voice barely there. "all of it."

Silas's breath hitched. For a heartbeat, the room seemed to tilt, his eyes darkening with a storm of emotions.

"Five years ago." A rattling inhale. "I shoved your mother down those stairs."

Elara slowly raised her head, her eyes raw with exhaustion and hollow with despair. Her voice trembled as she spoke, "I hated how she made my life a living hell at every turn. I hated that you never believed me. This time, I was afraid she'd wake up and expose me, so I... I tried to have her killed. It was my fault. I admit it."

Her words were like a crushing weight finally lifted from Silas's shoulders.

His tense frame visibly relaxed, the anger in his expression easing as his voice softened. "If you'd just come clean from the start, we could've avoided all this. Did you really have to drag everyone through hell first?"

He paused, then added, "Sybil's condition is stable for now, but she's still in the ICU."

"Elara," he continued quietly, "from now on, you'll take care of her—until she wakes up."

"Fine." Elara lowered her lashes, veiling the bitter contempt in her downcast eyes as she nodded obediently, playing the perfect repentant role.

Silas's heart softened, and instinctively, he reached to pull her close.

But the moment his fingers brushed her sleeve, she recoiled like she'd been burned, wrenching away violently.

Jaw clenched, she hauled herself upright, unable to bear meeting his eyes as she stumbled out, her legs barely holding her.