Chapter Three

LENA

I felt a splash of water on my face. I flinched, gasping as I staggered to my feet.

I stared at him for a moment. Even through the darkness of the night, I could see that he belonged to a world very different from mine. I was still staring at him when his voice cut through my thoughts.

"Wait, seriously?" He let out a mocking laugh, his eyes narrowing as they landed on the badge pinned to my chest. "A nurse? You've got to be kidding me.”

"People trust you with their lives, yet you're sitting in the middle of the road waiting to become roadkill? If you can’t take care of yourself, how do you expect to take care of a patient?"

I stared at him without uttering a single word. I couldn't find the strength to answer him.

"Now get the hell out of my way," he barked, the pity in his voice replaced by pure arrogance. He didn't offer a hand. He didn't ask if I was okay. He simply climbed back into his sleek black car and sped off, the tires splashing a fresh wave of dirty puddle water over me.

I was left alone in the freezing London night. All I had wanted was to go home. I had wanted to crawl into Killian’s arms so I could find the strength to face this hospital. Instead, he had thrown me out like yesterday's trash, mocking the lives of innocent children I never got to have because of him.

I managed to flag down a taxi, my body shaking so violently that I had to hug myself to keep from falling apart on the seat. As the driver pulled away, I leaned my head against the cold window. The rhythm of the rain against the glass began to blur the world outside, pulling me back to a time when life didn't feel like a series of funerals. I clung to those memories—the only things the world hadn't stolen yet.

Three Years Ago

It was a snowy afternoon. Mum and I were relaxing in the living room when her phone rang. It was the call she never recovered from.

“Hello, is this Mrs. Cooper?”

“Yes… who is this?”

My mother’s voice was light, almost airy. We were curled up on the oversized velvet sofa in our living room. The glow of the television was the only light, flickering against the walls as we watched a marathon of our favorite Hollywood legal drama.

My father had kissed us both on the forehead just a few hours earlier. I can still smell his expensive cologne and hear the jingle of his keys.

“Don’t finish the season without me,” he had teased, grabbing his briefcase. “I’ll be back before the big reveal.”

That was the last thing he ever said to me.

The voice on the other end of the phone didn’t have a name. It was just a cold, hollow tone that cut through the TV dialogue. I watched my mother’s hand tighten around the receiver. I watched the smile slide off her face like melting wax, leaving behind a mask of pure, jagged terror.

“What? No. No, that’s not possible,” she whispered. “He just left. He was... he was fine.”

Her breathing turned uneven. I could hear every shaky breath she took.

“He had a heart attack at his desk, Mrs. Cooper. He was confirmed dead on arrival. I’m so sorry.”

The remote slipped from my hand, clattering onto the hardwood floor. On the screen, the main character was winning a case, the audience was cheering, and the music was swelling. But in our house, the world had just turned into a vacuum. The "Happy Three" died right there on that velvet sofa.

My father was a healthy man, but the doctors said the pressure of running the company had finally taken its toll on his heart. At the time, I was too hollow to argue. I just wanted him back. I wanted to see him in his leather chair, complaining about the news.

We buried him, and with him, we buried my mother’s soul.

The three years that followed were a blur of slow-motion rot. My mother didn't just lose a husband; she lost herself. At forty-five, she should have been in her prime, but within months, she looked sixty. The woman who once obsessed over organic juices and morning jogs began to live on cheap gin and a pack of cigarettes that never left her hand. She couldn't bear the silence of the mansion.

Then, the wolves came.

My father's brothers. The men who had called him "brother" while secretly counting his assets. They didn't come to comfort us. They came with a law that felt like a death sentence.

“Our brother built this empire,” Uncle Marcus said, standing in our foyer with a cold, entitled sneer. “Since your mother couldn't give him a son—an heir to the Cooper name—the assets revert to the brothers. That’s the tradition. That’s the law of the blood.”

I threatened to call the police or even my father's lawyer but the truth was my father had a serious issue with his lawyer months before he passed and he never got the chance to finalize his will before hiring a new lawyer. None of us knew death was already knocking at his door.

They took the company and the mansion. They even took the family photos off the walls. They watched as my mother sat motionless, clutching a glass of gin as if it were her only oxygen. They ignored my screams. By sunset, they had locked the front door of my childhood, leaving us on the street with nothing but a few suitcases.

I moved in with Killian, believing he was my sanctuary. My mother went to live with Aunt Vivian. I thought I had survived the worst of it…until today.

The sharp, aggressive blast of a car horn jerked me back into the backseat of the taxi.

“Ma’am? We’re here. De Rays Specialist Hospital.”

I blinked, the London rain streaking down the window like a thousand tiny tears. My eyes were burning. I had just finished a grueling twelve-hour shift, only to find out that my five-year relationship was a lie and my mother was on a deathbed. Aside from the day my father died, today was the worst day of my existence.

I entered the hospital. The smell of disinfectant and bleach greeted me as usual—the scent of fear and lingering goodbyes. I walked straight toward the ICU, my heart hammering against my ribs. I saw Aunt Vivian sitting in a plastic chair in the hallway.

She was wailing. Vivian was a dramatic woman—she cried over movies or a burnt pot of stew—but this was different. This was the sound of someone being hollowed out. I ran to her, and she threw her arms around me, her tears soaking into my already wet scrubs.

"Aunt! How is mum?" I pulled her off my shoulder, searching her face. "She's still in the ICU, right? The doctors are saving her?"

"Yes..." she gasped, her face a mask of agony. "But her condition... it’s worsening. Her heart stopped again after you left. The doctors are still trying to save her.

They won't stop."

Immediately, a cold, sharp cramp hit my stomach. It was that familiar, sickening urge to use the toilet—the way my body always reacted to extreme tension. I felt like I was going to throw up.

I didn't even get a chance to breathe before I saw the doctor. He was walking out of the ICU, slowly peeling the blue surgical gloves, his head bowed.

We both hurried toward him. "Doctor, please," I begged, my hands shaking. "How is she? Any improvement?"

The doctor stopped. He looked at my wet scrubs, then at the clock on the wall. He took a deep, weary breath.

“We tried our best, Lena. We did everything we could, but her organs... they just kept failing. Her body couldn't fight anymore."

"Doctor, you said twenty-four hours!" I screamed, the sound echoing through the sterile hallway. "It's barely been ten! You said she had time!"

The doctor looked at me with a heavy, professional pity that made me

want to claw my eyes out.

"I'm sorry," the doctor whispered. "She passed away."

I stared at him, certain I had heard him wrong.