His Bride in Chains-Chapter 189: Dear Mother

The soft glow of the bedside lamp washed over Eliana’s room, stretching warm light across the familiar posters and framed memories on her walls. Shadows danced lazily around the edges, turning her once-comforting space into something half-dream, half-ghost. The balcony doors were cracked open just enough for the night air to slip in, carrying the cool whisper of the breeze and the far-off hum of cars drifting down the quiet street.

Eliana lay stretched across her king-sized bed—Henry’s stubborn insistence, a gift he claimed she "deserved, no negotiations." The mattress dipped beneath her as if welcoming her home after the chaos of the day. She sank deeper into the plush comforter, her free hand gently resting over the soft curve of her belly. The gesture was instinctive, protective... almost sacred.

Her curls fanned across the pillow like a dark halo, wild and beautiful even in their exhaustion. Her honey-brown eyes glimmered beneath the lamplight, unfocused, fixed somewhere on the ceiling as her mind spiraled through the events of the day. Rafael’s voice—raw, desperate—still echoed in her head. James’s earnest advice replayed in quiet loops. And her father’s warm embrace lingered like a fading scent, grounding her even as her emotions pulled her in a hundred directions.

Earlier, she had cupped her stomach and whispered soft promises into the quiet: We’ll be okay, little one. It’s you and me now. She meant it with every piece of her tired heart.

But peace—real, lasting peace—never seemed to stay.

The sudden buzz from her phone shattered the fragile stillness.

Eliana blinked, her breath catching as she shifted to reach for it. The screen lit up with an unfamiliar number, its glow too bright in the dim room. Her brows lifted slightly, curiosity threading through her exhaustion. She considered ignoring it—God knew she needed rest—but something in her wouldn’t let it ring out. Maybe habit. Maybe politeness. Maybe a quiet fear of missing something important.

With a small sigh, she swiped her thumb across the screen and lifted the phone to her ear.

"Hello?" she said softly, her voice warm but tired, carrying both strength and a hint of vulnerability that only nights like this could reveal.

Static crackled on the line, a pregnant pause that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Then, a voice slithered through—smooth as silk but laced with venom, cold enough to freeze the blood in her veins.

"Hello, my little rabbit," the voice purred, each word dripping with mock affection. "Today must have been a very rough day for you... wasn’t it?"

Eliana’s breath caught in her throat. Her body went rigid, her warm brown skin prickling with goosebumps as recognition hit her like a slap. That voice—elegant, commanding, utterly ruthless. It belonged to Mirabel Vexley, the very woman who had abandoned her as a child and then tried to kidnap her as an adult. How had she gotten this number? Eliana’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing in her ears.

"Who... who is this?" Eliana stammered, though she knew. Her voice trembled, betraying the fear she tried to hide behind her quiet strength.

A low, chilling laugh echoed through the phone, like ice cracking underfoot. "Oh, don’t play coy with me, Eliana. You know exactly who this is. Mirabel Vexley. Your dear, long-lost mother. Or should I say, the woman who’s been watching your every pathetic move?"

Eliana sat up abruptly, her free hand clutching the bedsheet as if it could anchor her. The room suddenly felt smaller, the air thicker. "What do you want, Mirabel? How did you get my number?"

Mirabel’s tone shifted, sharpening like a knife. "What I want? Oh, darling, that’s simple. But first, let’s talk about today. You were lucky, weren’t you? Slipping through my fingers like the slippery little rabbit you are. That kidnapping attempt—my men were so close. But next time? Next time, you won’t be so fortunate. I’ll make sure of it."

Eliana’s pulse thudded in her ears as her mind snapped back to the chaos earlier that day—the masked figures exploding out of nowhere, their shadows slicing across the pavement, the sharp rush of adrenaline slamming into her chest. She could still hear the screech of tires, the way her heart nearly stopped before help arrived in the nick of time. At first, she had convinced herself it was random—wrong place, wrong time, just her luck.

But Rafael had shattered that illusion with his fierce confession.

James had quietly confirmed it with grim certainty.

And now... Mirabel—of all people—was saying it with her own twisted mouth.

A cold wave rolled through Eliana, chilling her from the inside out.

Without thinking, her thumb slid across her phone screen, tapping the "record" button. Her hand trembled, but her voice—when it came—was steady enough to slice through the quiet of the room.

"You... you tried to kidnap me?" she whispered, disbelief tightening her throat. "Why? What kind of monster are you?"

The words tasted like metal—anger, fear, betrayal all at once—her breath catching as she waited for whatever vile explanation Mirabel would offer. The lamplight flickered and the night air suddenly felt colder.

"Monster?" Mirabel scoffed, her voice rich with disdain. "I’m a survivor, Eliana. Just like I taught you to be—oh wait, no, I didn’t. I left you behind in that squalor with your pathetic father. But look at you now, entangled in my world. And that little boyfriend of yours, Henry Jackson... he thinks he’s a hero, swooping in to save you today. How quaint. But he’s nothing—a flea I can crush under my heel."

Eliana’s eyes widened in confusion and horror. Henry? He hadn’t been there; it was Rafael’s men who had intervened. But Mirabel didn’t know that. A small spark of relief flickered in Eliana’s chest, quickly doused by the growing dread. "Henry had nothing to do with it. Leave him out of this!"

Mirabel’s laugh was sharper now, a cruel bark that sent shivers down Eliana’s spine. "Oh, please. Your little doctor-in-training? He’s not strong enough to stand in my way. If he keeps meddling in my business, I’ll deal with him. Permanently. A tragic accident, perhaps. Or something more... creative. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would you?"

To be continued...