Forgotten Love: Mr. President, Mrs. Fordham Has Rejected You!-Chapter 201: In an Emergency, Call Me Husband

Chapter 201: Chapter 201: In an Emergency, Call Me Husband

The next day, the daylight was fully bright.

When Stella Grant woke up, the bed beside her was already empty, with only a hint of residual warmth.

Just as she sat up, her phone rang.

It was a call from Roman Lynch.

"Miss Grant, the old gentleman is in particularly good spirits today, would you like to come over and see him?"

Stella agreed, "Sure, I’ll be over in a while."

After hanging up, she dialed Vivi Sterling’s number.

It rang several times before it was answered, and a soft, drowsy voice came from the other end.

"Hello..."

"Lazy pig, it’s time to get up."

"I’m so tired, I want to sleep..." Vivi Sterling turned over in bed, her voice thick with sleepiness.

Stella couldn’t help but smile at this.

"Then continue sleeping, I’ll come back at noon to have lunch with you."

She paused and added, "I’ll have someone send breakfast to your room."

"Aw, you’re so nice." Vivi said, and then ended the call.

The person delivering breakfast to Vivi was Hugh Whitman.

He stood at the door holding the tray, ringing the doorbell for a long time.

No one answered.

There wasn’t a sound from inside.

A bad feeling surged in Hugh’s heart.

Without thinking too much, he immediately drew out a spare room card from his pocket and swiped open the door with a "beep".

As soon as he entered, he saw the occupant curled up on the small bed.

The blanket had been kicked to the foot of the bed, leaving two snow-white slender legs exposed to the slightly cool air.

His Adam’s apple bobbed slightly, and he walked over with light steps.

"Vivi," he called softly.

The person on the bed moved slightly, mumbling vaguely.

"Don’t disturb..."

Hugh leaned down, reaching out to shake her awake, but as soon as his fingertips touched her arm, he was stunned by the scorching temperature.

Too hot!

Immediately, he reached out to feel her forehead, the heat made him lose his composure.

He quickly took out his phone and dialed a number, his voice tense.

"Send a doctor, right away!"

No doubt, Vivi Sterling had a fever.

The thermometer showed a reading of 39.3 degrees Celsius.

It might be due to catching a cold at night, or possibly an environmental adjustment.

Hugh looked at the number and felt his heart tighten.

He specially instructed the doctor, "She’s pregnant, ten weeks."

Upon hearing this, the doctor only prescribed an oral solution without side effects, advising him to focus on cooling her down physically before leaving.

Hugh sat on the bedside, holding alcohol cotton.

He clasped her small hand and carefully wiped the palm with the cotton ball.

Her little face was flushed red, lips cracked, and brows furrowed tightly.

After wiping her hands, he proceeded to wipe her feet.

Lastly, his gaze fell on the collar of her nightdress.

He unbuttoned the two buttons at her chest, the cotton ball dipped in cool alcohol gently swiped across her burning skin, all the way down.

Yet, a wave of inexplicable heat surged in his body, making his breath heavier.

He cautiously turned her to her side to wipe her back.

After finishing all this, he poured a cup of warm water and fed it to her mouth, spoon by spoon.

In the process, she suddenly woke up once.

Her eyes were half-open, filled with moisture, unfocused.

She tightly grabbed his hand.

"Zane Zimmerman..."

Her voice hoarse, calling that name repeatedly.

"I miss you... huhuhu..."

"Where did you go? Vivi misses you..."

The next moment, she burst into tears unexpectedly, with tears streaming down like pearls.

Hugh’s heart almost shattered from the pain.

He pulled her into his embrace, holding her tightly, gentle hand soothing her back, speaking softly and tenderly.

"Don’t cry, don’t cry, I’m here, always here."

Finally, after crying for a long time, her sobs gradually ceased, and she fell into a deep sleep again.

When Vivi Sterling woke up again, her fever had subsided.

She stared blankly at the ceiling overhead.

Her mind was chaotic, feeling as if she had a very long, long dream.

The dream included Hugh Whitman.

He kissed her and held her.

Crazy.

She quickly shook her head, chasing that man’s image out of her mind.

On the other side, Stella Grant hailed a cab at the hotel entrance, following the location sent by Roman Lynch, heading straight to the First Hospital.

The vehicle passed through the bustling city center, driving steadily west.

Suddenly.

Screech—

A sharp brake, the car lunged forward abruptly.

Stella instinctively shielded her belly with her hand, her body swerving forward.

The driver cursed, poked his head out, then spoke to her.

"Sorry, got rear-ended, I’ll step out to handle it."

Saying this, he unbuckled the seatbelt and got out.

Stella glanced at the navigation, about seven or eight kilometers to the hospital.

She immediately called Roman Lynch.

"I’ve run into some trouble here, the car got rear-ended, stuck in traffic."

"Stay where you are, don’t move, I’ll send a car to pick you up," Roman’s voice was calm.

Stella hung up the phone.

The driver in front was arguing with the owner of the car ahead, saliva flying.

She simply got out to catch some fresh air.

Behind, a long queue of cars was gradually forming, horns blaring incessantly.

At this moment, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed four or five men, all wearing black masks, casually closing in on her from the sidewalk.

Their target was her.

Stella’s pupils suddenly constricted.

A sense of unease swiftly tightened around her heart.

Without a second thought, she turned and sprinted in the opposite direction.

Sure enough.

The footsteps behind instantly quickened, the men fast on her heels.

Could this be another scheme of Corinne Kensington?

That madwoman truly was relentless.

She couldn’t allow anything to happen, she needed to deal with her tonight!

Fear was like icy hands reaching out to enclose her, nearly suffocating her.

She ran desperately forward, regretting not having trained better when she was younger.

Just then,

Through the crowd ahead, a familiar silhouette emerged.

The man stood in the middle of the road, tall and straight like a pine, the surrounding chaos serving as his backdrop.

He saw her, striding directly towards her.

At that moment, he seemed like the light piercing through infinite darkness.

Stella was both surprised and delighted, almost blurting out.

"Aiden Fordham!"

Aiden Fordham spread his arms wide.

She leapt into his embrace like a bird returning to its nest.

The firm chest, the warm embrace, and the refreshing scent on his body instantly soothed all her fears.

Finally, she was holding him.

This embrace made her feel incredibly safe.

His strong hand gently patted her back, his deep voice sounded in her ear, "Don’t be afraid, I’m here, no one can harm you."

His tone carried a calming strength.

Suddenly, he lifted his eyes, his previously gentle gaze instantly turning sharp.

He commanded into the air with an indisputable tone, "Surround them, don’t let any escape, including those two drivers."

As soon as he spoke.

Seven or eight bodyguards in black suddenly emerged from nowhere, swiftly enclosing the men chasing them and the two drivers still arguing.

The scene was instantly brought under control.

Stella Grant was stunned.

Before she could react, Aiden Fordham’s arm tightened, lifting her horizontally as he stepped towards the black Maybach parked by the roadside.

He looked down at her, still a bit dazed in his arms, his tone carrying a hint of helplessness.

"Forgot all that Keegan Lindsey taught you?"

"In an emergency, just call Storm Rayburn, everyone around you is mine."

Stella paused, then suddenly remembered.

She felt a bit embarrassed, but her words were sharp, "I was too scared just now, didn’t think of it."

She paused again, quietly muttering.

"Besides... the slogan sounds a bit awful, too uncool."

Aiden Fordham paused, surprisingly nodding, "Indeed."

He carried her into the car, leaning close, his warm breath brushing against her cheek.

"Then change it to ’husband’.

"In the future, whenever you face an emergency, call out ’husband’, and I’ll appear immediately, how about that?"

His eyes were filled with endless adoration, his voice distinctly coaxing.

Stella Grant rolled her eyes at him, but her ears quietly turned red.

"That’s even worse, no way."

He frowned, "Worse?"

He leaned closer, almost speaking against her ear, "Why don’t you give it a try, let me hear?"

Stella Grant laughed at his teasing, "In your dreams."

He watched her sparkling eyes, his adam’s apple moved.

The next moment, a searing kiss pressed over, unstoppable in its assertiveness, yet mixed with extreme gentleness, always coaxing her.

Yet she never relented, truly holding firm this time!

Ultimately, Stella Grant did not go to the hospital to see the old man; Aiden Fordham forced her back to the hotel, directly to the presidential suite, as the small bed from yesterday left him aching all over.

No one knew how he was being cheeky in the room, unable to stop kissing, several times nearly igniting a flame.

At lunchtime, he received a call and went out.

Stella Grant went to find Vivi Sterling for lunch, unaware that she’d had a fever, only feeling exhausted, and took another nap.

In the evening, they donned beautiful dresses, Hugh Whitman personally came to pick them up, heading to the Whitman Family’s recognition banquet.

The car smoothly drove into Whitman Manor.

This is no manor; it’s practically a magnificent palace.

Spanning an area of 300,000 square meters in The Imperial Capital’s prized Eastenwild, this alone left people astounded.

The Whitman Family is undoubtedly the top elite household in The Imperial Capital.

The old master abandoned politics for commerce, earning his fortune with sheer resourcefulness.

The current head, Abel Whitman, holds a high position, wielding substantial power.

His wife, Selene Sloan, hails from a scholarly family, her father a titan in the national painting circle, their family equally wealthy.

Such a background is truly a top-tier marriage of powerhouses, leaving one speechless.

Tonight, the entire manor was aglow, bright as midday.

One luxury car after another quietly drove in, filling the massive parking lot on the right side of the main residence.

Over a hundred luxury cars, nearly covering all famous brands, it was practically a moving car exhibition.

Above, the whirring of rotors came closer, as two private helicopters slowly descended on the distant helipad.

The scene was filled with grandiosity.

The recognition banquet for the Whitman Family’s heiress lost for eighteen years was a major national event.

This was no mere celebration.

It was a reshuffling of The Imperial Capital’s elite social circles.

All the young talents who received invitations dressed to impress; who wouldn’t want to forge a connection with the Whitman Family?

Moreover, the identity of this heiress was no secret.

It was none other than the currently dazzling A-list star, Corinne Kensington.

A famous workaholic in the circle, recently rumored with Magnate Fordham, had near-perfect reviews.

Her demeanor dignified, her reputation impeccable.

Coupled with her stunningly beautiful face, now further as the Whitman Family’s heiress, she was like a songbird evolving directly into a golden phoenix.

The single men on site, one after another, were eager and ambitious, their gazes filled with unmasked aspirations.

Whoever gained her favor would reach heights overnight.

Soon, two understated yet luxurious cars came to a stop in front of the main residence.

Hugh Whitman stepped out himself, walking around to the other side, opening the car door with gentlemanly grace.

Two radiant figures stepped down from the car one after the other.

As Stella Grant and Vivi Sterling entered the banquet hall, their breath hitched for a second.

It was too extravagant.

A massive crystal chandelier cascaded down from the dome of the third floor, its brilliant glow illuminating the entire hall, every detail visible and shining bright.

On the east and west sides of the hall were two long rows of famous paintings, the ones on the walls all genuine masterpieces of immense value.

The central area was arranged as a dance floor, surrounded by precious flowers flown in, their rich fragrance floating in the air, dense but not overbearing.

As guests saw the two beauties enter, there was a brief silence on site.

All eyes were drawn over.

Stella Grant was coolly refined, Vivi Sterling radiantly bright, standing together, each exquisite in their own right, yet both stunningly beautiful.

Many men, holding their wine glasses, stirred eagerly, ready to approach.

However, Hugh Whitman stood right beside Vivi Sterling.

He did nothing, merely standing there casually, his tall figure and powerful aura naturally forming a barrier, keeping those eager ones at bay.

People could only discuss quietly from afar.

"Who is that woman? She’s personally brought by Eldest Master Whitman."

"Haven’t seen her before, but with such looks, is she Eldest Master Whitman’s girlfriend?"

The butler hurried over, whispering something in Hugh Whitman’s ear.

Hugh nodded slightly, then turned his face to Stella Grant and Vivi Sterling.

"Feel free, I’ll step away for a moment."

"Be back shortly."

After speaking, he turned and walked towards the second floor with broad steps.

Stella Grant and Vivi Sterling moved to the painting area.

As she looked at the paintings, Vivi Sterling was so excited she nearly jumped on the spot.

"Wow, this light-shadow handling, these brushstrokes, amazing! No doubt it’s a genuine piece!"

"If I could analyze this painting for my graduation thesis, my mentor would bow to me."

Vivi Sterling studied art; viewing famous paintings was like a fan seeing their idol, her eyes filled with light, clicking her tongue in praise as she walked along the row of vivid paintings.

Stella Grant, however, had little reaction.

Her steps naturally slowed, finally stopping in front of a minimalistic painting.

The painting contrasted starkly with the surrounding works.

On white rice paper were just small black footprints, and beside them, a few scattered little handprints.

No artistic merit to speak of.

Seemed randomly stamped, almost excessively coarse.

Yet coincidentally, the painting’s title was two bold words, "To Love".

In the bottom left corner, Morton Sloan’s scarlet seal was pressed.

Boldly notifying everyone it was a master’s work.

Stella Grant’s gaze locked dead on those delicate little footprints.

Her mind buzzed.

An image abruptly crashed in, making her heart tremble...