Page 3 of Obsessing Over His Favorite

Across the room, Dillon scoffed loudly. He looked at Emily with barely-concealed contempt.

“This woman has nothing better to do than chase Mr. Cantrell’s attention every damn day,” he muttered. “All this drama just because he went to drop off Miss Amelia. She actually threw herself in front of a car just to cause trouble.”

He slipped his phone into his pocket, muttering bitterly under his breath, “No wonder Mr. Cantrell won’t come see her even if she’s dying. Who’d want a clingy woman like her around?”

Emily couldn’t open her eyes fully, but through her blurred vision and half-lidded gaze, she saw the disgust in Dillon’s face. Heard every cruel word.

Her heart ached violently.

It wasn’t even her physical injuries that hurt the most. It was those words. Words that pierced deeper than any wound on her body. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but they refused to fall. Her body was too weak to cry.

“She’s not even worth wiping Ms. Amelia’s shoes,” Dillon muttered, disgust lacing every syllable. “What a pathetic excuse for a woman.”

Amelia.

Of course it was always Amelia.

How could Emily ever compare?

In the next instant, a wave of memories rushed into her like a tsunami—flooding her chest, ripping through her soul. Everyinsult. Every cold glance. Every time Lucas defended Amelia and accused Emily of being ‘dramatic’ or ‘jealous’.

And now, those memories felt like razors, slicing her from the inside.

Her pulse spiked. The pain became unbearable.

And then—beep.

A high-pitched, continuous alarm screamed through the room. The heart monitor let out a long, piercing sound.

It was the flatline.

Emily’s body stilled. Her eyes shut.

The pain stopped.

So did the memories.

Emily Crawford… died.

***

Blinding white light.

It pierced through her eyelids like needles. Emily groaned, her eyes struggling to open. The pain in her head was sharp, unbearable. Her body ached as if she'd been run over by a train.

She blinked hard, adjusting to the brightness. Her head throbbed, her eyes stung, and her limbs felt like they weighed a ton.

Near her IV stand stood a tall man in a dark suit, his hands tucked into his pockets. His shirt collar was open, sleeves rolled halfway. He looked irritated—tense. His face was sharp, clean-shaven, and cold.

Another man walked into the room. Light stubble, arrogant dark eyes, and a doctor’s coat thrown over a shirt and pants. He looked straight at her—then away—as if she were an inconvenience.

Emily tried to sit up, adjusting the pillow behind her back. Her head spun.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice raspy, eyes flicking between the two men.

The man in the suit—Dillon—snorted. He let go of the IV stand he’d been watching, clearly counting the minutes until he could walk away.

“Ms. Crawford,” he said with a mocking edge, “you can drop the act. Mr. Cantrell isn’t here to witness your performance.”