Red Card to Your Heart: You Don't Deserve My Love Extra Time novel Chapter 15

Diego did end up in the hospital, his condition far more serious than anyone had initially thought. The news spread quickly among our mutual friends—the nerve damage had unexpectedly returned, the doctors calling it a "statistical anomaly" with less than a 2% chance of occurring.

The same man who had fought so hard to stand again was now facing the possibility of permanent paralysis. Just like before, only worse—because this time he knew exactly what he was losing.

History began repeating itself with almost eerie precision. The same parade of well-meaning ex-girlfriends appeared at the hospital, each insisting they could handle Diego's care. The same beautiful women who had once claimed my two years of devotion were nothing special.

My friends even placed bets on how long each would last.

The record was two days. Most left after just a few hours.

"Karma's a bitch," Charlotte texted me after hearing that the fashion designer daughter of the football club's board member—the one who had confronted me at the party—had fled the hospital in tears after Diego threw a water pitcher at her.

My friends repeatedly warned me not to feel an ounce of sympathy. "He made his choice, Emma. He doesn't get to change his mind now that things are hard again."

I had no intention of getting involved. Since accepting Mrs. Ferreira's "settlement," I hadn't looked back. That chapter was closed.

Then came the midnight call.

"Emma?" Mrs. Ferreira's voice was barely recognizable—hoarse and strained. "Could you meet with Diego, just once? Please."

Federico was sitting beside me on the couch when the call came through on speaker. His eyebrows rose slightly at the woman's desperate tone.

"I'm sorry, but that wouldn't be appropriate," I replied evenly. "I have a boyfriend now."

"I understand that, but—" her voice cracked. "I'll pay you whatever amount you want. Name your price."

The irony wasn't lost on me. Once again, she was trying to solve her son's problems with money.

"He hasn't eaten in three days," she continued, her composure crumbling. "The doctors are talking about a feeding tube. I'm begging you. He... he said he'll eat if you come."

Federico watched my face carefully, his expression unreadable.

"Why is this happening to us again?" she sobbed, all pretense of dignity gone. "He was doing so well. He had started playing with the youth team. The doctors said it was a miracle..."

Her words tumbled out incoherently, a mother's raw grief spilling through the phone.

Federico placed his hand gently on mine and mouthed, "It's okay if you want to go."

His unexpected generosity caught me off guard. Most men would have objected to their girlfriend visiting an ex who clearly still had feelings for her.

"I'm sorry," I told Mrs. Ferreira firmly. "But I don't owe Diego anything. You made that very clear when you wrote that check."

The silence that followed was heavy.

"I have my own life now," I continued. "And Diego needs to find his way forward without using me as an emotional crutch."

After the call ended, Federico pulled me close. "That was difficult to hear," he said quietly.

"Would you really not mind if I went?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Everyone has a past, Emma. I'm secure enough in what we have." Then he grinned. "Besides, I've seen how you look at me. No competition there."

I'd occasionally catch him on his way out the door; other times I'd find only his endearing handwritten notes: "Gone exploring! Back for dinner. Ti amo ♥"

As these notes accumulated while his actual presence diminished, an unfamiliar uneasiness crept in. What exactly was he doing all day? Who were these new "friends" he kept mentioning?

I remembered how anxious he'd become during my week-long business trip to Madrid, calling multiple times daily to ask what I was doing.

For the first time, I understood his perspective. I'm always slow to recognize emotions—especially my own—always a beat behind in understanding the emotional currents around me. I wanted to have a proper conversation with him about these feelings.

But before I could find the right moment, my phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number.

It was a photo of Federico sitting at a waterfront café, laughing intimately with an attractive brunette. Their heads were close together, her hand resting on his arm.

The caption read: "See? All men are the same."

Diego had created a new number just to send this.

Immediately, anxiety flooded through me. That morning, Federico had mentioned he was "meeting some local friends for coffee."

Before I could process this, more photos arrived—Federico and the same woman walking along the riverfront, stopping at a jewelry store, entering an apartment building.

"Care to guess if he'll come home tonight?" Diego taunted.

I blocked the number immediately, but the seed of doubt had been planted. Was Diego's pathetic attempt at revenge actually based in truth?