innocent

Roland's POV

I stopped in the hallway, my hand still resting on the handle. I had only come to check if the woman I hit yesterday was recovering—nothing more.

A simple courtesy visit.

The nurse had told me she was stable, with just minor injuries and a mild concussion. I'd already covered her medical bills and informed the hospital to contact me if there were any complications. It should have ended there.

I turned to leave, but that sound—half laughter, half sob—made me hesitate.

I glanced down at the file I was holding.

Patient: Gina Greenwood. Age: 23.

There was a photo clipped to it, taken during her admission. Even with the hospital lighting and bruises, she had a presence about her—like someone used to standing under brighter lights.

I should have walked away. I told myself that twice. But my feet ignored reason, and before I knew it, I was standing inside her room.

She didn't notice me at first. She sat on the bed with her phone in one hand, shoulders trembling as she laughed through tears. The sound hit me harder than I expected. It wasn't joy—it was the kind of laughter that comes when life has taken too much.

I handed her my handkerchief without thinking. She paused for a while, then reached out to take it.

"Thank you," she said in a small voice.

I nodded, having no idea why I was being nice to her. "I'm sorry," I said, keeping my tone calm. "I didn't mean to intrude." The silence between us felt a bit awkward.

She didn't speak—just looked at me, confused, guarded, exhausted. I thought I saw admiration, but I was most likely wrong.

"How are you feeling? The doctor said your injuries aren't serious," I continued.

Her brows drew together. "You're… the one who—" Her voice faltered. "You hit me." She came to the realization.

I nodded once. "Yes. I'm sorry about that. I was in a rush yesterday, but it doesn't excuse my carelessness. I made sure your bills were covered."

She swallowed, her grip tightening on the handkerchief. "You didn't have to. I was also a bit careless."

"Maybe," I said quietly. "But I still wanted to make sure you were alright."

She nodded. She seemed to have said something, but I didn't hear her.

For a few seconds, neither of us spoke. The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the faint hum of the hospital monitor beside her.

"If you need anything, you can let me know," I said, handing over my personal number card to her.

She nodded in response. I stepped out before she could answer. The door clicked softly behind me, sealing her silence inside.

As I walked down the corridor, I exhaled slowly. I wasn't sure what compelled me to check on her personally. I told myself it was guilt—plain and simple.

There was something about her eyes… that mixture of pain and fire.

I'd seen that look before—on people who'd been betrayed, stripped of everything, yet refused to break.

When I reached the parking lot, my phone buzzed. A message from my assistant:

 "Sir, the press is asking for a statement about the livestream scandal involving Prime Entertainment's artist Ethan Cole and a former Mount Wing graduate named Gina Greenwood."

I stared at the name on my screen and the attached pictures.

Gina Greenwood.

The same woman lying in that hospital room.

I glanced back toward the building, the echo of her broken laughter still ringing in my ears. I had just returned two days ago and was set to take over my grandmother's entertainment company, since she was ready to retire.

Dad said Prime Entertainment was a training ground for me. So, although I was going to become the CEO in two months, he asked me to manage the PR department first—where I'd get more acquainted with the industry.

I settled inside the car and read the report about her. I don't know why, but even with all the evidence presented, I believed her claim of innocence.

Maybe it was because I had just witnessed her breakdown or…

Those eyes—there was something about them that spoke of innocence.