Chapter 2204

Chelsea lay against the starched hospital sheets, her eyelids trembling as she struggled to stay conscious.
“It hurts,” she whispered, each word snagging on a shallow, rasping breath.

Phoebe sat on the edge of the mattress, worry and anger braided tightly in her voice. “You should have known better, Chelsea. You’re not a child anymore. Did it honestly not occur to you how dangerous it is to jump from a moving car?”

Chelsea gave a sharp, contemptuous snort. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have tried to drag me away in the first place.”

Phoebe exhaled, her shoulders folding inward. “Your father and I are trying to protect you. If you really were carrying that boy’s child, your entire future would be ruined.”

The familiar lecture washed over Chelsea like stale air, leaving her soul heavy and exhausted.

“Mom, you don’t understand. Not at all.”

First of all, Jason wasn’t that kind of person. And second—the most they had ever shared was a single, shy kiss. Nothing more.

“Oh, right. I know nothing,” Phoebe replied, her voice dripping with the weary sarcasm parents wield everywhere. “I’m older than you. I’ve seen more. You’ll regret ignoring me—mark my words.”

“Enough,” Chelsea murmured. “My head is pounding. I need to rest.”

She closed her eyes, sealing the conversation behind her eyelids.

Seeing the steel in her daughter’s posture, Phoebe had no choice but to rise and leave the room quietly.

Out in the corridor, Kingston was waiting. “How is she?”

Phoebe could only shake her head, frustration clouding her eyes.

Kingston let out a long breath, straightened his jacket, and strode back into the ward.
“Chelsea, you should go overseas for a while,” he said, his tone firm but edged with urgency. Better to send her abroad, he thought, than to watch her be deceived by some penniless boy.

He and Phoebe had seen enough of the world to know how convincingly villains could disguise themselves.

In their eyes, Jason’s affection was overshadowed by one thing alone—his likely hunger for the Rainsworth fortune.

Over the years, they had watched too many wealthy families with only one daughter be hollowed out by greedy sons-in-law.

“I’m not leaving the country,” Chelsea said, her voice unyielding, like granite.

The single sentence left Kingston momentarily speechless.

“…Very well,” he said at last, gripping the bedrail. “Then let Jason marry into our family. He’ll sign an agreement stating he will never touch a cent of our assets. When you or we die, everything goes to charity—not him. Any children you have will take the Rainsworth name. Let’s see if he still agrees.”

Conditions like these would send most men running.

What father didn’t want his own surname carried forward?

Stripped of wealth, dignity, and legacy—treated like a trespasser—how could Jason possibly accept?

“Dad, that’s unbelievably unfair.”

“He’s an orphan,” Kingston replied coolly. “What difference does a surname make? In fact, let him take the Rainsworth name immediately.”

Phoebe swept back into the room, heels striking the floor, her coat flaring like a banner. She fixed Kingston with a glare sharp enough to draw blood.

“What nonsense are you spouting?” she snapped. “People with the same last name do not marry.”

Kingston froze. Only then did he realize how absurd his words had been.

“Listen carefully,” he said after a pause. “Either you accept the conditions—or you cut ties and file for divorce.”

The ultimatum fell like an iron gavel.

“I’m choosing neither,” Chelsea said quietly, resolve threading every syllable. “Get out. Stop bothering me. Lock me in if you think that will work.”

She turned onto her side, dragged the quilt over her head, and shut them out completely.

In the hallway, Kingston and Phoebe exchanged weary sighs. After a long, frustrated silence, they finally settled on one plan.

They called the driver and took a taxi to the modest apartment Jason was renting.

Inside, Jason sat alone in the living room, shoulders slumped, eyes dull with defeat.

The doorbell rang.

Hope ignited across his face. He sprang up, smoothed his jacket in the mirror by the door, and flung it open.

“Chelsea!” he exclaimed, relief flooding his voice.

But standing on the threshold were Kingston and Phoebe—faces stern, gazes cold, fixed squarely on him.