The Divorced Military Queen Awakens (by Sadie Baxter) novel Chapter 615

**Chapter 615 Bitter Remorse**

The mere thought of that loathing, that vile emotion—just the faint, imagined specter of it—felt like a slow, torturous descent into a living death for him.

Zachary lay on a hospital bed, his body encased in layers of gauze from shoulder to calf, each slight movement eliciting a painful groan from his battered ribs. The sterile scent of antiseptic hung in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. His father, Harrington, stood over him, fury crackling in his voice like a live wire.

“Why on earth did you choose to pick a fight with Weston Windore? Do you even comprehend who that man is? You had the audacity to lay a hand on his woman!” Harrington’s voice boomed, veins in his neck pulsating with barely contained rage.

If Zachary hadn’t looked so utterly pathetic—eyes swollen, lips split, and the hospital gown stained with dried blood—Harrington might have found the strength to slap him, to drive the lesson home with a physical jolt.

“How was I supposed to know Weston would still be pining for a woman who dumped him?” Zachary retorted, the bitterness in his voice overpowering the numbing effects of the painkillers coursing through his system. In his mind, a man as emotionally distant and aloof as Weston should have retaliated with brutal vengeance the moment he was spurned.

After all, Weston carried himself with an air of icy pride, as if he were untouchable. A man of that stature, cast aside by a woman, should have responded with merciless retribution, not wallowed in despair.

Harrington slammed his palm against the metal bed rail, the sound echoing in the small room. “It doesn’t matter whether he’s over her or not! You should never have laid a hand on that woman. Think, Zachary. Anyone who can waltz unchallenged into the Orchid Pavilion Club is far from ordinary to Weston.”

At that moment, Harrington had no inkling that the only reason Laura had gained entry to the Orchid Pavilion Club was that Julius Whitethorn himself had opened the doors for her—an alliance far more perilous than Weston alone could conjure.

“Dad, this has nothing to do with Weston. It’s—” Zachary started to explain, but his words fell away as the door swung open abruptly. A line of men in dark suits entered, their steps brisk and their faces set like granite. The air thickened with tension, and both father and son fell silent, their earlier argument suspended in the air.

What in the world is happening?

As the last man crossed the threshold, recognition dawned on Harrington, his eyes widening in shock. He stepped forward, bowing slightly in a gesture of respect. “Mr. Whitethorn, what brings you here?”

Julius’s tone was cordial yet held an unmistakable chill. “I heard your son was injured, so I thought I would pay a visit.”

A flicker of hope ignited on Harrington’s face. Perhaps his son had somehow managed to forge a connection with this influential figure. “It is such an honor,” he said, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace.

In his relief, he completely missed the way Zachary’s complexion drained to a ghostly white.

Julius stood at the foot of the hospital bed, his coat impeccably pressed, eyes glinting like shards of winter frost. His voice remained low and even, never rising above a conversational tone. “I’m not here out of concern,” he stated bluntly. “My wife learned that her friend was humiliated at the club by your son, and it shattered her. So I’m here to settle the score.”

Before Harrington could fully grasp the weight of the threat, two of Julius’s men stepped forward with purpose, yanking the sheets away and hoisting Zachary off the mattress, the IV lines snapping like frayed fishing wire.

“Hit him,” Julius commanded, his word clipped and frigid.

The impact of each blow reverberated through the room, the dull thud of flesh against flesh echoing like a grim symphony.

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