I woke up to a dull, rhythmic beeping. For a second, I couldn't place the sound. Everything felt foggy—my head heavy, my body wrapped in invisible weights. Then came the scent of antiseptic, the faint whoosh of machines, and the sterile chill of hospital sheets.
I blinked slowly, and the world sharpened.
White walls. Monitors. An IV line snaking into my arm.
And him.
Dominic.
Asleep in the chair beside me.
His head rested against the backrest, lips slightly parted, arms crossed loosely across his chest like he'd fought sleep and lost. His suit jacket was draped over the foot of the bed. His white dress shirt was wrinkled, his tie askew. But it was his face that made something ache in me—his eyes were swollen, as though he'd cried.
Not just cried—broken.
And then it came back, like a flood crashing against a brittle dam.
Jason. His rage. The hallway. Claire—oh God, Claire.
The fall.
Then nothing but black.
I shifted slightly, wincing at the pull in my ribs. The monitor beside me beeped a little faster. I turned my head slowly—and that was when he stirred.
He blinked. Then, with a gasp, sat up straighter.
"You're awake," he breathed, as though afraid to believe it.
I nodded slowly. My throat was parched, and the words came out as little more than a whisper. "You're here."
He offered a soft, tired smile. "Of course I am. You gave me a damn heart attack."
I tried to smile back but failed. My chest clenched as I remembered more—his voice right before everything went black.
"Please, I can't lose you again, Amira. Not again—stay with me. Please."
What had he meant by again?
The words echoed in my skull.
I wanted to ask. I really did. But I couldn't. Not when his eyes still held shadows. Not when I saw his fingers trembling where they rested on the edge of the mattress.
Instead, I asked the one question I dreaded the most. "How… how is Claire?"
Dominic's expression faltered. His jaw tensed. He looked away, dragging a hand over his face.
"She's…" He swallowed. "She's in a coma."
My breath hitched. "Oh God."
"They're not sure when she'll wake up. Or if she…" His voice cracked, and he didn't finish.
Silence stretched, thick and sharp like broken glass between us.
"She hit her head hard," he added quietly. "There was a lot of blood. The doctors said… swelling. They've done everything they can. Now it's just a matter of time."
I didn't know what to say. What could I say?
"I'm sorry," I whispered, my eyes burning.
He gave a small shake of his head, his lips pressed into a line. "You were hurt too."
"It's nothing serious, right?"
"No," he said softly. "Just a mild concussion. Some bruises. You'll be okay."
He sounded more like he was trying to convince himself.
Then he stood suddenly, like he couldn't sit still anymore. "I'll go get the doctor."
I reached out, weakly grabbing his wrist. "Wait."
He froze, staring down at me.
"I'm not trying to get up," I said quietly. "Just… come here."
His eyes searched mine for a moment, then he sank onto the edge of the bed.
I wrapped my arms around him, gently but firmly, expecting nothing in return.
For a heartbeat, he was stiff.
Then he melted into me.
His arms circled my waist, his face buried in the crook of my neck. And then I felt it—hot tears sliding down my skin, quiet, trembling sobs that shook his whole body. He didn't make a sound beyond that, didn't speak or apologize.
He just held on like he was afraid I'd vanish.
And I held him back.
Because I needed him too.
Because grief didn't wait for explanations or permission.
When he finally pulled away, he looked embarrassed, his hand swiping over his face.
"I'm sorry," he said hoarsely.
"You don't have to be. She's your mother."
He nodded, his throat working. "I'll still call the doctor."
He left the room with long strides, and I stared after him, a hollow feeling blooming in my chest. The kind of ache you feel when you know something has changed forever.
Ten minutes later, the doctor arrived, friendly but professional. He examined me thoroughly, asked questions, checked my reflexes, and finally concluded I was stable.
"Some superficial injuries and a mild concussion," he said. "You're lucky. Very lucky."
He told me I could be discharged in a couple of days if all went well.
When he left, Dominic returned, this time holding two cups of coffee.
He handed me one.
I blinked. "Coffee?"
"Decaf," he said with a shrug. "The doctor said it was fine."
I held it between both hands, inhaling the warmth, the comfort. "Thank you."
He nodded, leaning back against the wall.
Silence again. Not awkward. Just heavy.
"Did you find out… who did it?" I asked finally.
Dominic's jaw clenched. "Jason and Lila."
My heart dropped, though I already knew. "How… how did you know?"
"There were cameras in the venue. In the hallway. The footage was clear enough."
I swallowed. "That's… enough to press charges?"
He hesitated. "When we found you, you had something clutched in your hand. A bracelet."
I frowned. "A bracelet?"
"Not yours. Lila's. You must have grabbed it in the struggle. It was enough to start a case. The police issued a search."
A pause.
"For me?" I whispered.
He looked at me then, really looked at me, his expression unreadable.
"Yes," he said. "For you."
Something twisted in my chest.
"I… I didn't expect you to look for me," I admitted.
His gaze darkened with emotion. "Why not?"
I gave a weak laugh. "I mean… it's not like this marriage is real. We've known each other what—a few weeks?"
He said nothing for a moment.
Then, softly: "You're my wife."
"That was the deal, remember?"
He looked like he wanted to argue. Then someone burst into the room.
"Sir," the man said breathlessly. "We found them. Both of them."
Dominic stiffened. "Where?"
"They're being brought in now. The police are handling it."
He turned to me. "I have to go. But I'll come back. I promise."
I nodded, too tired to argue. "I'll be here."
Something unreadable flickered in his eyes, then he left, the door clicking shut behind him.
The room was quiet after Dominic left, but my thoughts weren't.
They spiraled, one overlapping the other. I should've been relieved—Jason and Lila were caught. But instead of relief, all I felt was… hollow.
I leaned back into the pillow, staring at the ceiling.
Jason. Lila.
How had it come to this?
Not long ago, they were the people I trusted most in the world. My future. My family. And now? They had nearly taken someone I cared about. They had nearly killed me. And for what?
Jealousy?
Hatred?
Or just… selfishness?
I closed my eyes. I didn't want to cry. I wanted to feel angry, to scream, but I didn't have the strength. All I could do was wait.
And wonder.
What did Dominic mean when he said he couldn't lose me again?
The question wouldn't leave me alone. It clung to me like a shadow, brushing against the corners of my thoughts, waiting.
It was hours before he came back.
The moment he stepped into the room, I knew something was wrong. He didn't say anything right away. Just stood there, his coat still dusted with raindrops, his eyes stormy and unreadable.
I sat up slowly. "Dominic?"
He blinked like I'd broken a spell. Walked over. Pulled the chair closer.
Then he sank into it and exhaled shakily.
"What happened?" I asked, heart racing. "Were they caught?"
He nodded. "Yes. They found them in a motel on the edge of the city."
"And?"
He didn't answer immediately. His hands were clenched.
"Dominic?"
His voice was low, almost distant. "Jason is dead."
I froze.
For a moment, the words didn't make sense.
"What?" I whispered.