"You got the wrong wife!"
Josef felt nothing but fury for every word that fragile, petite woman spat from her small, plump lips. He had every right to hate the woman who left him five years ago, but beneath his anger, he knew there was still a flicker of affection hidden deep within the dark corners of his dead heart.
He gently pulled her up, trying to let her stand on her own, but she could barely do it. A scent of cheap beer wafted from her rumpled, messy hair, which covered half her face. Her plain black pant suit was creased from head to toe, yet it still outlined her voluptuous, well-proportioned body.
"Hey, wake up!" Josef shouted, trying to rouse her spirit. But she only bobbled her head back and forth, her black heels nearly slipping off her feet, dangling loosely. In an instant, her heels snapped, and she fell. Quick as lightning, Josef caught her.
She's as drunk as a skank, he thought grimly.
"My head hurts," a drunken Mirabella whispered.
At that moment, Josef pushed the loose strands of hair from her face, revealing a bloodied, battered face. It was so dark that he almost hadn't noticed the blood—until he saw the same blood smeared on his fingers. Without hesitation, Josef squatted, wrapping his arms around her back and behind her knees, and lifted her in a swift motion. He signaled one of his guards to open the door to his car.
"Hospital!" Josef shouted urgently. Carefully, he laid Mirabella on the rear seat. He ran around to the other side and sat beside her, gently holding her head and resting it on his lap.
"Mirabella, can you hear me?" Josef asked, softly patting her bloodied cheeks. Seconds passed, but there was no response. Anxiety flooded him.
You're not going to die on me, Mirabella. Not like this.
"Faster!" Josef demanded sharply to the driver.
"Mr. Harlington, no need to worry. Thankfully, she doesn't need stitches. Her CT scan came back clear. She might feel nausea and pain when she wakes up. I've prescribed some medication. Once she's awake, call me or the nurse's station," the doctor said.
It had been a long time since Josef felt this kind of relief. He almost begged the heavens to save her, trading his pain for hers. For a brief moment, he forgot all the anger and heartbreak this woman had caused him.
A few minutes later, Mirabella was starting to hear faint whispers around her. Her head throbbed painfully. She recognized the scent: the pungent, antiseptic smell of disinfectant mixed with a faint sweetness, metallic tang, and a slight mustiness. That was how life and death often smelled in a hospital. She couldn't mistake it. She was in the same place she'd been five years ago—a time when she had nearly died. But this time felt different. Her bed was softer, almost embracing her in silk, unlike the cold stone bed from her past. It felt warm—alive.
Wait… am I alive or dead? Because this feels like heaven. Oh no.
Josef was examining her face. Despite her pallor, her features remained striking—full, dark eyebrows and lashes, a small, pointed nose, and lips that once belonged to him. But one thing bothered him: the faint mole that used to sit in the middle of her nose bridge, a mole he loved to kiss. This woman, however, had no mole—bare-faced, and seemingly different.
Panic surged as she slowly forced her heavy eyelids open. She expected to see blinding light. Instead, her vision was greeted by the silhouette of a tall, muscular man hovering over her. Instantly filled with fear, she pushed him away.
"Stop!" Mirabella shouted. Josef stumbled back, landing on his backside. What the—? he thought in surprise.
Before she could say another word, a sharp pain shot through her head. "Awww… that freaking hurts." The pain intensified, making her face contort.
Josef couldn't believe that someone had just pushed him to the ground. Begrudgingly, he pushed himself up, brushing dust off his suit. Then, he saw her writhing in pain and immediately turned to the intercom to call the nurses' station. He stepped closer, trying to comfort her.
"Don't come near me! You perv!" she snapped.
Me, a pervert? What did I do? he wondered silently. Thankfully, the nurses arrived quickly. They tried to calm her, but she was panicking.
A severe headache was one thing, but without her glasses, Mirabella was incapacitated. Her panic intensified in this strange room with strangers.
"Miss, you need to take these pills to relieve the pain," one nurse said.
"No! I need my glasses. I can't see. How do I know you're not going to kill me?" she retorted, trembling.
Ever impatient, Josef snatched the pills and a glass of water from the nurse's hands and stepped beside her.
"Stop!" he commanded sharply. Mirabella froze in fear. "Drink your medicine. Or I'll leave you out on the street. You're in pain, and you're blind. What do you think will happen to you?"
"I am NOT blind. I can see, just not clearly," she said resignedly. She tried to grab the pills and the glass, but her blurred vision made it impossible.
Josef sighed heavily, pushing the pills into her trembling lips one by one. His rough thumb brushed against her soft lips, sending a jolt through her body. He fought to stop himself from further caressing her.
Mentally snapping back to reality, Josef placed the glass of water in her hands. "Drink up and rest. We have a lot to talk about."
He turned to the door and called out, "Get Mirabella's optometrist here. Order her a new pair of glasses."
The way she behaved—her fear, her confusion—was unrecognizable. She was not the Mirabella he once knew. She never needed glasses, never shouted or panicked like this. The Mirabella he remembered was calm, composed, and fun to be around. The woman lying here now, with her beauty and build, looked just like her. Yet, she felt utterly different. She was not the woman he had loved—and left.
Who are you, wife?