Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Natalie
God, why did giving birth to a baby have to hurt this much?
The pain was primal, savage, giving me zero time to adjust. Like someone yanked my soul out, beat the hell out of it, then shoved it back in.
My consciousness lurched between agony and darkness.
In my ears: the cold beep of machines, medical staff talking, and my own uncontrollable groans.
Sweat soaked my hair and hospital gown, sticky against my skin.
My abdomen felt crushed by an invisible hand, squeezing, twisting, wringing everything out.
The terror from the kidnapping hadn't faded yet.
Mixed with the physical pain, it sharpened into something more acute.
The warehouse. That man's twisted face. The glint of the blade.
The suffocating hand over my mouth. And Richard.
.. Damn it, how was Richard? I needed to see him.
That thought gave me the strength to keep going through the pain.
"Breathe, Mrs. Winston, follow me. In, out—"
"I see the head! One more time, push! For your baby!"
I clenched my jaw and gave everything I had.
Then, a loud cry.
"It's a boy!"
The baby... my baby...
I wanted to see him, but every bone in my body felt gone. I collapsed on the bed, too weak to lift a finger.
I don't know how long I was out before I forced my eyes open. It took several seconds for my vision to focus.
Then I saw Richard.
He sat beside my bed in what looked like a comfortable armchair that wasn't doing its job right now.
Dark shirt, top button undone, hair messy, jaw shadowed with stubble, heavy circles under his eyes.
He looked exhausted. But those gray-blue eyes never blinked as they watched me, bloodshot but filled with undisguised concern, fear, and. .. fierce joy at getting me back.
My gaze landed on his left arm resting on his knee and stayed there—wrapped in heavy white plaster from below the elbow to his hand, suspended in a sling across his chest.
"Rich... ard..." My voice came out wrecked.
"I'm here." Richard leaned forward immediately, using his uninjured right hand to grasp mine with incredible gentleness. "Natalie, how do you feel? Does it still hurt? The doctor's outside, I'll get them right now."
I shook my head, eyes locked on that cast, throat tight. The words stuck in my chest.
He followed my gaze to his arm. "Minor injury. Just a few stitches."
"Liar." I finally found my voice, choked with tears. "I saw... the knife... went in... so much blood..."
He tightened his grip on my hand, thumb stroking my knuckles.
"Really, it's nothing. Looks worse than it is.
Compared to what you and the baby went through, this is nothing.
" He paused, voice dropping. "Olivia and those bastards who touched you—I've already pinned down several hiding spots.
Soon. I promise, soon there'll be news. None of them will get away. "
His tone stayed calm, but I heard the churning fury beneath, the destructive determination.
I knew that for me, for the baby, Richard would never let this go.
The attending physician and obstetrics director knocked and entered for their rounds.
They briefed me on the delivery. "Although premature, the baby's healthy. Low birth weight, though, so he needs observation in the NICU. But his vitals are stable. No serious preterm complications so far. Mrs. Winston's body took a major toll. You'll need extensive rest to recover."
After they left, a more serious-looking doctor came in. He was there to report Richard's arm reexamination results.
"Mr. Winston, yesterday's emergency surgery was successful.
We stopped the bleeding and prevented serious infection.
However," the doctor adjusted his glasses, voice measured, "the knife caused a very deep laceration.
It damaged important tendons and some nerve bundles.
We did our best to suture and repair, but nerve regeneration and functional recovery are long and uncertain processes.
In the future, this arm very likely won't return to its pre-injury state.
You'll probably have permanent functional impairment—significantly reduced grip strength, difficulty with fine motor tasks, abnormal temperature and tactile sensation, and possibly persistent pain or numbness. .."
Permanent functional impairment.
Reduced grip strength.
Difficulty with fine motor tasks.
Persistent pain.
Each word hammered my heart. I looked at Richard's expressionless profile, then at that glaring white cast. This hand that once signed billion-dollar contracts, controlled a vast business empire, and not long ago, tenderly touched my pregnant belly.
.. Now, doctors were telling us it might never work like before.
Because of me. Because Richard blocked the knife meant for me.
Overwhelming emotion hit me. Guilt flooded in, nearly drowning me. If he hadn't protected me, Richard never would've been hurt. This proud man who controlled everything had, without hesitation, risked crippling his hand to keep me safe.
"All right, understood." Richard's response was calm and detached.
After he dismissed the doctor, he picked up a water cup with his right hand and held it to my lips, indicating I should drink.
His face showed nothing else, but I knew what permanent damage to his left hand meant for someone like him.
"Richard, I'm sorry..." I choked, tears streaming. "This is all because of me..."
"Shh." He set down the cup and wiped my tears with his thumb, movements gentle in a way unlike him.
"Don't say that. If that knife had hit you, or.
.. hurt the baby," his voice caught, eyes darkening, "that would've been real hell.
One hand? Nothing. Even if both hands were ruined, it would be worth it. "
He said it so matter-of-factly. So absolutely. Not a shred of hesitation or regret. My tears came harder, but this time, not just from guilt.
The hospital recovery days dragged. My body felt dismantled and rebuilt, every movement accompanied by soreness and weakness.
But Richard practically lived at the hospital.
With his left hand out of commission, he learned to operate a tablet one-handed, using voice commands for urgent business.
He insisted on personally overseeing all my care—from meal plans to rehab schedules, every detail.
He even learned, clumsily but with remarkable patience, to help nurses turn me and bathe me with one hand.
He stopped saying "I'll decide for you" or "this is for your own good.
" Instead, he carefully asked about my feelings and preferences.
"Does the incision still hurt? Should we adjust the pain pump?
" "Want something with flavor today? The kitchen made bird's nest soup, or you could try a traditional postpartum Chinese meal?
" "Want to listen to music? I had them transfer that playlist from your phone. "
These tiny changes touched me more than any expensive gift.
A few days later, one afternoon, feeling better, I leaned against the raised hospital bed watching the sunlit garden outside. Richard sat nearby, handling emails one-handed on his tablet. Luca knocked and entered, handing him a thick folder.
Richard took it without looking and placed it directly on my blanket.
"What's this?" I looked at the embossed folder with its gold seal.
"One of your discharge gifts." He gestured for me to open it, the corner of his mouth lifting in a faint, almost gentle curve. "Though I think you need something to cheer you up right now. Showing you early."
I opened the folder suspiciously. Inside: thick legal documents, equity transfer agreements, asset lists... The top page's title read clearly: "Confirmation of Unconditional Transfer of 'Harbor Records' and All Subsidiary Assets and Rights from Richard Winston to Natalie Green (Winston)."
Harbor Records. My former label. The one he'd acquired.
I looked up at him sharply, too shocked to speak.
"It's yours now." Richard met my eyes, expression calm and serious.
"Completely, one hundred percent. Independent board, independent operations.
I won't interfere in any business decisions.
What kind of music company you want it to be, what artists you sign, what music you release—it's all your call.
This is your kingdom, Natalie. I'm just..
. returning what belonged to you all along, in a more secure way.
Celebrating you and our son being safe."
My fingers traced those cold legal terms, trembling slightly.
This wasn't charity or compensation. He'd heard my longing for independence and self, and given me the most practical, respectful way to achieve it—a platform and absolute freedom.
He wasn't trying to "protect" me under his wing anymore. He'd built me my own fortress.
"Thank you." A thousand words reduced to this, voice breaking.
"And this." He indicated with his eyes the gilded invitation beneath the folder.
I picked it up. A formal letter from the most authoritative, historic global music awards—the Golden Voice Award committee.
It stated that given my "unique contribution to contemporary pop music, artistic influence, and extraordinary courage and creativity shown in adversity," the committee had decided to grant me this year's Lifetime Achievement Award. The ceremony was in a month.
God, this award... what so many musicians dreamed of.
"Natalie, per protocol, you need to prepare a speech and submit it to the committee for general approval, to avoid inappropriate remarks. If you need help..."
"I'll write it myself." I set the invitation back on the folder. "But once I'm done, you can be my first audience. Don't get too emotional." Honestly, I'd never written an acceptance speech. This would take some work.
Richard actually laughed, low and warm in the quiet room, with rare ease. He shook his head like he couldn't handle me. "Fine. But will your body hold up standing on stage that day? I'll get you a diamond-encrusted wheelchair so even sitting, you'll sparkle."
"No way. Too nouveau riche." I couldn't help laughing, too.
Soon, I dropped the joking, saying softly, "Richard, I want to see the baby. Now. Can we?"
Richard's smile faded. His brow creased slightly as his eyes swept over my still-pale face and weak frame. "You just woke up. Your strength can't handle it. Tomorrow, when you're better, I promise..."
"Just through the glass. One look." I reached out, tugging his sleeve, shaking it lightly. "I won't go in, won't disturb him. Just one look. Richard, please."
His lips pressed tight, gray-blue eyes struggling. Medical orders and my physical condition on one side. The unmistakable longing and anxiety in my eyes on the other. Finally, the latter won. He sighed almost inaudibly, that breath full of helpless surrender.
"Ten minutes." He held up one finger. "Only looking from outside for ten minutes. Then straight back to bed rest. Non-negotiable. I'll have the nurses prepare a wheelchair and monitoring equipment."
"Deal!" I agreed instantly, afraid he'd change his mind.
So, accompanied by nurses and Richard, I went to the NICU to see the baby. Through thick glass, I saw the little guy sleeping quietly in his incubator.
This was my son. Mine and Richard's child. He came early to this chaotic world, but he'd have all our love and protection.
I turned to Richard beside me. He watched the tiny figure intently, his profile uncommonly soft in the gentle light. Those usually cold gray-blue eyes now held a tenderness I'd never seen, almost reverent, with a hint of awkward nervousness at new fatherhood.
In that moment, my last doubts, barriers, and anxieties melted away like ice in sunlight.
Surviving this made me see things clearly. I saw Richard's love—maybe still carrying innate dominance and protectiveness, maybe he'd never learn ordinary people's soft words, but it was real, burning, and willing to pay any price.
I was willing to spend my life with Richard. I'd decided that two years ago.