Each breath was a reminder of where I was and why. I found his room at the hospital. The door was slightly open, and through the crack, I saw him. Pascal. My Pascal, who was all sharp smiles, was now a broken sculpture placed on white pillows. His left arm was a monstrous thing, enclosed in plaster and suspended in a sling. A tapestry of purple and yellow bruises bloomed across his face. A dark, ugly scar lying comfortably against his pale skin.
Unlike yesterday, this sight of injury would have shattered me. Now, a strange peace had settled in me a bit. He was, as the doctors had cautiously said, 'a bit better.' And my mom, who had stayed with him all night, had already gone home, so she could have a warm shower.
"Millie," he called out to me, his one good eye focusing on me as I entered. The other was still swollen shut.
I moved to his side, my hand finding his uninjured one, my fingers lacing with his. They were cold. "I'm here."
He tried to shift, a sense of pain tightening his features. "Sit. Please."
I rushed to his side, my hands flying unsteadily, afraid to touch him, afraid he'd break further. I settled for wrapping my fingers gently around his good hand. It was warm. Alive.
"My mum said you were getting better," I whispered, my voice thick with unshed tears. "The arm…"
"It's just a break," he said, his voice gaining a sliver of strength. "It'll mend. It's… it's the rest of it, Millie."
He tried to shift again; a deeper pain this time tightened his features. I squeezed his hand. "Don't move. Just rest."
But rest was the last thing on his mind. His good eye, dark and desperate, locked onto mine.
He turned to Millicent. "Thank you for coming to check on me."
"The pleasure is all mine," Millicent replied with a steady voice and smile.
"Can you please excuse us for a moment?" he begged, sounding not harsh. With that, Millicent stepped out and shut the door against us.
"Millicent, listen to me. You can't. You can't tell them anything."
I blinked. "Tell who? The police? Why? Pascal, they nearly killed you! Rocas and his gang…"
An uncontrolled energy seized him. "No! No, Millie, please." He tried to push himself up with his good arm, a groan escaping him. "You have to promise me. When the police come, you say nothing. You don't know anything. You didn't see anything."
"But I did see! I saw them pound on you."
"It doesn't matter!"
The force of his whisper was sharper than a shout. He was begging now, true fear etching lines deeper than any bruise on his face.
"I will make the statement." He continued. "I'll tell them I was attacked and robbed; it was random, I don't know who it was. But you… you have to be silent."
I stared at him, the man I loved, the man I was supposed to marry, and I couldn't understand the terror in his eyes. It was more profound than the fear of Rocas. This was a different kind of dread, cold and settled.
"Why?" The word was a plea of my own. "Why would you protect them?"
He sank back into the pillows, the fight draining out of him, leaving only a hollowed-out shell of shame. "It's not about protecting them. It's about… me." He took a shaky breath. "If I press charges, if I make a scene, Rocas… he'll talk. He'll go to the police, not about this, but about before."
"Before?" I asked.
"Yes… you know everything, Millie. Stop pretending." He said that, not wanting me to see the shame on his face.
"A kidnapping, Pascal," I said, trying to catch his eyes.
"Just one. I know I was foolish. I didn't know what I was getting into, and I got out as soon as I could, but he never forgets. He'll use it. He'll tell them everything." His good hand gripped mine like a vise. "If the police start digging into me because of this, they'll find out. And I'll go to prison for attempted kidnapping. I'll lose you. I'll lose everything. And my reputation will go down the drain."
The room was quiet. The beeping of the heart monitor seemed to mock me. My brave fiancé, who had thrown himself in front of me, wasn't just a victim. He was a man with a shadow, and that shadow was now threatening to consume us both.
I wanted to be angry. I wanted to scream at him for his past stupidity, for dragging this poison into our future. But all I saw was the raw terror in his eyes, the utter devastation of a man who knew he was about to lose his whole world.
"Your parents," I said softly, the pieces clicking into a horrifying whole. "They're on their way."
He nodded, a single, miserable gesture. "They called. They're bringing the family lawyer. And they're not coming alone. They're bringing policemen with them." "To take my 'official statement,' he said, the last words laced with bitter irony. "Millie, please. For me. For us. Let me handle this. Just be the worried fiancée who knows nothing."
I looked at his broken body, at the plea in his eyes, and I felt the weight of our future settle on my shoulders. It wasn't a weight of joy and promise anymore, but of secrets and lies. The right thing, to demand justice for the violence done to him—was now the most dangerous path.
Before I could answer, the sound of brisk, authoritative footsteps and murmuring voices echoed from the hallway. It was his parents. And with them, the law.
Pascal's eyes widened, a final, silent supplication.
I took a deep breath, leaned forward, smoothed a strand of hair from his damp forehead, and made my choice.
"I was so scared," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "I'm just so glad you're alive."
The door to the room swung open. The door whispered open, and his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Washington, rushed in. Their faces, usually composed and cheerfulness, were filled with a terror I felt in my own soul.
Mrs. Washington's eyes immediately filled with tears, a soft cry escaping her lips as she saw her son. But then her gaze found mine, and she crossed the room in three quick strides, enveloping me in a fierce, comforting-scented hug.
"Millicent, my child," she breathed, her voice thick with emotion. "Thank you. Thank you for being here. Your mother called us." She pulled back, her hands cupping my face, her eyes searching mine. "She stayed with him all night. God bless you and your mom, my daughter. Thank you."
Mr. Washington placed a firm, grateful hand on my shoulder, his nod saying everything his trembling lips could not speak. The warmth of their appreciation was a small, warm flame in the cold room.
I didn't expect this kindness from them; I thought they would insult and blame me just like my parents. I thought they would scold me for disappearing on my wedding day.
But maybe Pascal told them the truth. However, that wasn't the thing to talk about now. It was about their son, who had almost lost his life.
The flame was soon quenched by the two police officers stepping inside the room.