The Cold King of the Underworld Never Expected to Find His Vanished, Heavily Pregnant Ex-Wife Serving Tables in a Backstreet Restaurant When a Medical Emergency Collided with Their Hidden Past

The vibrating hum of the cheap mobile phone on the metal folding table cut through the heavy, charged silence of the apartment like a razor blade.

Sloan Marchetti didn’t loosen his grip on Delphine’s wrist.

His dark, penetrating gaze remained locked on her face, watching every micro-expression as the screen flashed with an incoming encrypted call ID.

“Answer it,” Sloan commanded quietly, his voice a low rumble that brooked no argument.

“Or don’t,” he added with a dark edge, “though we both know whoever is on the other end isn’t calling to talk about restaurant inventory.”

Delphine glared up at him, her jaw tight.

With a sharp twist of her arm, she managed to wrench her hand free from his grasp.

She snatched the phone off the metal table, swiped the screen, and pressed it directly to her ear without bothering to check the number.

“Speak,” she snapped, her voice still trembling with residual adrenaline.

“Delphine?” a breathless, youthful voice whispered on the other end of the line.

“Cora?” Delphine froze, her eyes widening slightly as she looked back up at Sloan, who stepped closer to hear every syllable.

“Are you… are you still there? Are you safe?” Cora Marchetti’s voice sounded weak, heavily laced with the lingering fatigue of an acute systemic shock, but unmistakably alive.

“I’m safe, Cora. I’m at home,” Delphine replied, her clinical instincts instantly overriding her personal alarm.

“How is your breathing? Did the hospital run the secondary panels to check your baseline tryptase levels?”

A soft, weak chuckle came through the speaker.

“You really are a doctor, aren't you? Even when you're wearing a waitress uniform and running away from my terrifying older brother.”

Delphine’s face flushed slightly, and she shot a sharp, warning glare at Sloan, who stood silently just inches away, his arms crossed over his broad chest.

“My profession is none of your brother’s concern,” Delphine whispered harshly into the phone.

“Listen to me, Cora: you need to stay under observation for at least twenty-four hours. Anaphylaxis has a nasty habit of entering a biphasic rebound phase hours after the initial epinephrine dose.”

“I know, I know,” Cora sighed softly on the other end.

“The doctors have me hooked up to three different monitors, and Sloan is glaring at the head of cardiology like he’s about to start a turf war in the ICU. But that’s not why I called you, Delphine.”

The tone of Cora’s voice shifted instantly from playful gratitude to a chilling, nervous seriousness.

“What is it?” Delphine asked, her posture stiffening.

“Right before I collapsed in the private dining room… when I was sitting at the table… I didn't just accidentally eat something I shouldn't have,” Cora whispered, her voice dropping so low Delphine had to strain to hear.

“What are you talking about?”

“Someone tampered with the truffle amuse-bouche platter, Delphine. The kitchen logs show the chef didn’t use peanut oil, but when the plate was brought out, my portion had a heavy cross-contamination of raw nut paste smeared directly into the garnish.”

Sloan’s dark eyes narrowed instantly.

The casual, possessive tension in his posture evaporated in a fraction of a second, replaced by the lethal, coiled stillness of an apex predator whose territory had just been breached from within.

“Who brought the platter into the private room?” Sloan demanded, his voice carrying clearly across the small room so that Cora heard him through the speaker.

“Sloan? Is that you?” Cora gasped.

“Put her on speakerphone right now,” Sloan ordered, stepping directly in front of Delphine and holding out his hand with an authoritative glare.

Delphine hesitated for a fraction of a second, then tapped the speaker button and laid the phone flat on the metal folding table between them.

“Cora,” Sloan said, his voice dropping into a chilling, metallic register.

“Who handed you that plate?”

“It… it was one of the junior kitchen runners,” Cora answered, her breath hitching slightly.

“A kid named Leo. He’s worked there for three months. But Sloan… he looked terrified when he handed it to me. And right after I collapsed, he vanished. The manager says he hasn't clocked out; he just left his apron on the floor and disappeared into the alley.”

A heavy, suffocating silence descended upon the tiny apartment.

The realization hung in the air like poison gas.

The anaphylactic shock hadn’t been a random kitchen accident.

It had been an assassination attempt targeting Cora Marchetti—executed right inside the supposedly impenetrable private dining room of the Copper Lantern, orchestrated by someone with inside access to the staff rosters.

“Stay in your hospital room, lock the doors, and do not let a single nurse or doctor touch you unless Bishop is standing inside the room checking their credentials,” Sloan ordered, every syllable dripping with controlled fury.

“I’m putting a full security detail outside your door right now. Nobody gets in. Nobody gets out.”

“Sloan, I’m scared,” Cora whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek in the hospital bed miles away.

“Don’t be,” Sloan replied, his voice softening by a fraction for his sister before hardening back into solid granite as he looked at Delphine.