Henry Jackson stood frozen in his bedroom, the cracked screen of his spare phone staring up at him from the floor like a mocking eye. The word "accident" echoed in his skull, a thunderclap that drowned out everything else. How could he have been so blind—so utterly, unforgivably stupid? While he’d been playing the hero for Isabella, chasing ghosts of jealousy and misplaced chivalry, Eliana had been probably fighting for her life in a hospital. And her father?. His hands trembled as he bent down, snatching the phone up with a curse under his breath.
"Eliana? Eliana, are you still there?" His voice cracked, raw with panic, as he pressed the device to his ear.
On the other end, Eliana’s breath ca in shaky bursts, her honey eyes fluttering shut in the sterile glow of the hospital room. "Henry... yes, I’m here. Please, just... co. I need you."
"I’m coming. Right now. St. Patrick’s Hospital, you said? Which room? Tell everything—wait, no, stay on the line. I’m grabbing my keys." Henry’s feet were already moving, propelling him down the stairs in a blur of motion. The empty house amplified his footsteps, each one a hamr blow to his guilt-ridden heart. He burst through the front door, the autumn wind whipping at his face like a reprimand, and yanked open the garage door with a tallic groan.
Eliana’s voice trembled through the speaker. "VIP wing, Room 507. Henry, it’s bad. Papa... he’s in a coma. And the baby—oh God, I almost lost it."
Henry’s pulse kicked hard as he stepped into the plush interior of his midnight-blue BMW M8, the cabin swallowing him in quiet luxury. With a tap, the engine awakened—smooth, powerful, effortless—nothing like the chaos suddenly tearing through his chest.
"A coma?" His voice thundered through the car’s pristine silence. "What the hell happened? Start talking. I’m switching you to speaker."
He set the phone into the built-in console mount with practiced precision. The car glided out of the estate driveway, the tires gripping the asphalt with controlled aggression. He didn’t screech or swerve—he commanded the road, but his mind was anything but steady, each turn fueled by a rising storm of fear.
Eliana hesitated, her words catching on a sob. "Not over the phone. It’s too much. Just get here safe. Please."
The drive was a nightmare of blurred traffic lights and honking horns. Henry’s mind raced faster than the car, replaying every missed call, every mont he’d wasted at Isabella’s penthouse. He weaved through midday congestion, his knuckles pale on the steering wheel. "I’m such an idiot," he muttered to himself, though Eliana heard it.
"Henry, don’t say that. You couldn’t have known."
"But I should have! I lost my damn phone last night—dropped it soplace I can’t recall. I should’ve borrowed one sooner. God, Eliana, if anything happens to you or Frank because I wasn’t there..." His voice trailed off into a choked whisper, the city skyline looming ahead like a judgntal sentinel.
Twenty agonizing minutes later, Henry screeched into the hospital parking lot, slamming the car door behind him without bothering to lock it. He sprinted through the sliding doors, the antiseptic sll hitting him like a wave. "VIP wing," he gasped to the receptionist, flashing his ID with shaking hands. "Room 507. Eliana Bennett."
The elevator ride felt eternal, the soft ding announcing his floor like a death knell. Henry’s heart pounded as he navigated the polished hallways, past nurses in scrubs and beeping machines. Finally, Room 507 lood before him—a private suite, courtesy of Rafael’s bottomless pockets, no doubt. He pushed the door open without knocking, his breath catching at the sight inside.
Eliana lay propped against a mound of sterile white pillows, her small fra looking almost swallowed by the hospital bed. The soft whir of machines filled the room, steady but unnervingly fragile. Her warm brown skin—usually glowing—seed drained of its usual vibrance, and her honey-colored eyes, the ones that always held so much life, were clouded with exhaustion. Strands of her long black hair fanned across the pillow like ink spilled on canvas, framing a face fighting through pain she didn’t bother hiding anymore.
The hospital gown did nothing to dim her beauty. Even worn down, even vulnerable, she carried a quiet, effortless grace that made the whole room feel smaller around her.
And sitting right beside her—far too close for Henry’s comfort—was Rafael Vexley. Despite the wheelchair, despite the charade of blindness, he radiated an authority that bent the space around him. His tall, athletic fra looked almost compressed by the chair, as if power simply refused to shrink for anyone. His jaw was clenched, the faint stubble darkening it giving him a harder edge, and his usually sharp, steel-grey eyes stayed unfocused, perfectly mimicking a sightless stare.
But what struck Henry... what froze him... was Rafael’s hand.
Resting on Eliana’s baby bump. Moving in slow, protective circles. Gentle. Familiar.
Too familiar.
They looked like a couple—one forged by whispered fears and shared nights, by secrets tucked between heartbeat and breath. The intimacy wrapped around them like a veil.
Henry felt sothing sharp twist in his chest. Not jealousy—not exactly. It was deeper, rawer. Because behind Rafael’s calm façade he saw the bruises marking Eliana’s skin, the IV digging into her arm, her strength flickering like a candle fighting for air.
And Rafael was there. Where Henry wasn’t.
The realization hit him like a punch.
But the pain of jealousy paled against the raw ache of seeing her like this: fragile, broken, far from the resilient woman he knew.
Henry rushed in, his footsteps heavy on the tiled floor, startling Rafael just enough that the billionaire’s hand paused mid-circle. Rafael’s head tilted slightly, his expression shifting to one of alert caution, though he maintained the charade of sightlessness.
"Who’s there?" Rafael’s voice was smooth, laced with that signature sarcasm, but edged with genuine protectiveness. His steel eyes remained unfocused, staring at nothing.
Eliana looked up, her face lighting with a mix of relief and joy. "Henry! Oh, thank God you’re here." She reached out a hand weakly, her voice soft but warm.
Rafael’s lips curved into a fake smile, one that didn’t reach his pretend-clouded eyes. It was polished, practiced—the mask of a man who’d spent years hiding behind walls. "Ah, Henry. What a pleasant surprise. Co in, co in. Don’t stand there like a statue." He withdrew his hand from Eliana’s bump with deliberate slowness, as if reluctant to break the connection.
Henry swallowed hard, forcing his gaze away from where Rafael’s touch had lingered. "Eliana... you look... I’m just glad you’re okay." He moved to her bedside, ignoring Rafael for a mont.
To be continued...
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