Novelas de zBYNoKrk

The burner phone vibrated against my palm at 2:17 a.m. Unknown number. Third time tonight. The first two calls were the same. Silence. Breathing. Then a click. I shoved the phone into my scrub pocket. Detective Singh wanted a log of every threat. She did not need to know how each call dragged me back to seventeen. Back to the sound of my locker slamming shut with my books inside it. Roman shifted in the hospital bed. Even asleep, he looked braced for a hit. The monitors kept time with his heart. Steady. Stronger than yesterday. “You are awake,” he said. His voice was rough with sleep. But his eyes were clear. Clearer than they had been since he woke three weeks ago. “Could not sleep.” I checked his IV. My hands needed something to do. Standing still meant feeling everything. I could not afford that. Not with him watching me like this. Since he remembered Vegas, the space between us had changed. The rules I lived by were bleeding out. The ones that kept Nurse Mo

I did not breathe. The man on the monitor had Roman’s face. Roman’s voice. Roman’s eyes. But the Roman beside me was solid. His blood was on my hand. His heart was beating too fast against my arm. Two Romans. Only one could be real.“Impossible,” Singh said from the doorway. Her gun was up, pointed at the screen. “Roman Kade was in that car. We pulled him out. DNA matched.” “DNA can be faked,” Victor said. He was still on the floor where Roman had thrown him, blood on his lip, smiling. “Especially when you own the lab.” The man on the screen pressed the gun harder to my mother’s head. She was crying, silent tears streaming down her face. She looked at the camera like she knew I was watching. “Isla,” she mouthed. I am sorry.“Who are you?” I said. My voice did not sound like mine.The man on the screen tilted his head. Exactly like Roman did when he was calculating. “You tell me, wife. You thought you slept next to me for ten years.” Ten years. The Vegas marriage. Amnesia. The wa

The Kade estate looked exactly like I remembered from high school. Cold. Too big. Full of windows that showed everything and doors that locked from the outside. We did not use the front door. Singh’s team went in first. Three officers, guns drawn, sweeping the marble hall where Roman’s father used to host parties that ended with someone crying. The chandelier was still there. So was the blood on the floor from when Roman was seventeen and refused to break my fingers.“Clear,” Singh said through the radio. “No heat signatures upstairs. The panic room is open.” Roman stood beside me in the driveway. His hospital gown was gone. Singh had given him tactical pants and a black tee that pulled against the fresh stitches on his side. He looked like the CEO he used to be, except CEOs did not bleed through their shirts for me. “You do not have to go in,” he said. His voice was quiet. “Singh can clear it. We can wait.” “He is waiting for us,” I said. “Your father. He wants us in that hou

The elevator doors did not close. Singh jammed her boot between them. The metal groaned. Her gun was up and on Julian before he could push the plunger on the syringe. “Drop it,” she said. “Now.” Julian smiled. The cut on his face from the vest shot at the quarry had scabbed black. “You shoot me, Detective, and you have twenty witnesses saying you executed a man in a hospital lobby. You think Judge Harmon will let Mrs. Kade keep a medical proxy after that?” His eyes slid to me. “Choose, Isla. Sign it. Or I make him bleed out right here. Again.” The syringe was still at Roman’s neck. One twitch and whatever was inside would hit his carotid. He had just been stitched. He would not survive another coma. Roman did not look at Julian. He looked at me. Calm. Like we were back in ICU Room 7 and he was asking me to trust him. Do you trust me? I did. God help me, I did. “I will sign,” I said. “Isla, no,” Roman said. His voice was low. Warning. Julian pulled a folded paper from his jac

His heart was racing under my palm.For me. Not from surgery.Roman had just told me his father was alive. That he buried the man who killed my dad and faked his death to protect me.And now he was standing in ICU Room 7, bleeding through his gown, asking Singh to run prints on a burner phone that could prove it.Singh was already on her radio. “I need CSU at Westbridge now. And get me Judge Harmon. We have a hearing in twenty minutes and new evidence.”She looked at Roman. “You stay in that bed or I will cuff you to it.”“I am not staying,” he said. His voice was steady despite the blood on his arm. “If my father sent that text, he knows Isla has the ring. He knows she remembered. He will not wait for court.”He was right.Julian wanted a medical proxy. Roman’s father wanted us dead.Two Kade men, two wars. And I was the wife caught between them.“Get back in bed,” I told Roman. My nurse's voice was back. It was the only thing keeping me from shaking. “You tore your incision. You nee

I did not run to Roman’s room.I walked.Every step felt like wading through the lake again. Cold. Heavy.The photo of seventeen-year-old me was in my pocket. It burned worse than the class ring on my thumb.You were in a coma for two weeks. Singh’s voice played on loop.I had no memory of it. No memory of a crash. No memory of my dad dying in my passenger seat.I remembered a phone call. I remembered my mom screaming. I remembered the funeral where Roman stood ten feet away and said nothing.None of it was real.The ICU hall was quiet at 5 a.m. Too quiet.Two officers stood outside Roman’s door. Singh had posted them when the radio said Julian was at the hospital.“He’s stable,” one said. “Came out of surgery an hour ago. The doctor says there are no visitors.”“I’m his wife,” I said.The word tasted different now. Not like a lie. Like a wound I didn’t know I had.The officer stepped aside.Roman was awake. Pale against the white sheets, but his eyes found me the second I entered. N