Chapter 17: The Man in His Room

Westbridge General looked different at night. 

The lights were too bright. The halls were too quiet. Every nurse at the station stared when I ran past. 

I did not care. 

Singh was on the phone with hospital security. “Lock down the ICU. No one in or out of 304. I repeat, 304.” 

Room 304. Trauma ICU. Roman’s room. 

Again. 

My heart was in my throat. He was alive. He had to be. The wound was not fatal. High. Right side. I packed it myself. 

But Julian was here. 

And Julian wanted him dead. 

I hit the elevator button. It was too slow. 

“Stairs,” Singh said. 

We ran. 

Three flights. My legs burned. My scrubs from earlier were still in my car. I was in jeans and a bloodstained shirt. I looked like a patient, not a nurse. 

It did not matter. 

We reached the ICU floor. Two officers were at the doors. 

“Status?” Singh asked. 

“One visitor went in five minutes ago,” the officer said. “Claimed to be family. Showed ID. Julian Kade.” 

No. 

Singh drew her gun. “Is Roman alert?” 

“The doctor said he woke up in the ambulance,” the officer said. “Stable. Talking.” 

Talking. To Julian. Alone. 

I pushed past them. 

“Isla,” Singh called. 

I did not stop. 

I knew the ICU layout better than my apartment. Room 304 was at the end. Isolation room. Glass walls. Privacy curtain. 

The curtain was closed. 

I could see shadows through it. Two men. One in a bed. One standing. 

I stopped outside the door. My hand shook on the handle. 

Breathe. 

You are calm in a crisis. That is what you do. 

I slid the door open. 

Julian turned. He was in a suit. Not a hospital gown this time. No fake concern. No legal papers. 

Just him. 

Roman was in the bed. Awake. IV in his arm. Chest bandaged. His face was pale but his eyes were clear. 

He saw me. 

Relief hit his face first. Then fear. 

“Isla,” Roman said. “Get out.” 

“No,” I said. 

Julian smiled. It did not reach his eyes. “The wife. Good. Save me a trip.” 

“Step away from him,” Singh said behind me. Her gun was up. 

Julian raised his hands. “I am his uncle. I am family. I have a right to visit.” 

“You lost that right when you paid to have his brakes cut,” Singh said. 

“I was arrested,” Julian said. “I was released. No charges filed. Insufficient evidence. You know the law, Detective.” 

He looked at me. “You, however, have no rights here. You signed the annulment.” 

My stomach dropped. 

He knew. 

“Adrian told you,” I said. 

“Adrian tells me many things,” Julian said. “Like how my nephew changed his father’s will. How he put billions in a trust for a trauma clinic. For you.” 

Roman went still. 

“You did not tell her the rest, did you?” Julian said to Roman. “About the clause.” 

“What clause?” I asked. 

Roman closed his eyes. “Julian.” 

“There is a morality clause,” Julian said. “In the trust. If the beneficiary is convicted of a felony, the trust dissolves. The money reverts to Kade Technologies.” 

To him. 

That was why he posted bail. That was why he was here. 

He was not here to kill Roman. Not anymore. 

He was here to frame me. 

“The blue drive,” I said. “The evidence. You want me to use it.” 

“I want you to have it,” Julian said. “Then I want you to be arrested for possessing stolen corporate data. Data you got from your father, who stole it from Victor. Theft. Corporate espionage. Felony.” 

He looked at Singh. “And you cannot protect her, Detective. Because if you do, you are complicit. You knew about the drive. You hid it. Conspiracy.” 

Singh’s jaw clenched. He was right. 

It was a trap. Ten years in the making. Victor built it. Julian was springing it. 

“Why tell us?” Roman asked. His voice was rough. But steady. CEO voice. 

Julian walked to the foot of the bed. “Because I am not a monster, Roman. I am giving you a choice.” 

He pulled an envelope from his jacket. Set it on the bed tray. 

“Sign this,” Julian said to me. “Transfer the trust back to Kade Technologies. Willingly. Today. I drop all of this. The drive. The charges. You walk away. You keep your nursing license. You keep your freedom.” 

“And if I do not?” I asked. 

“Then I give this to the DA.” He pulled out a second folder. “Photos. Of you and Detective Singh. Meeting in secret. Hiding the drive. It is enough for an indictment. You will be arrested tonight. Roman will watch from this bed.” 

He would. He could not get up. He could not stop it. 

“Do not listen to him,” Roman said to me. “Isla. Look at me.” 

I did. 

His green eyes were fierce. Alive. No hesitation now. 

“Do not sign,” Roman said. “That clinic saves people. It saves you. He does not get to take that.” 

“If she does not sign, she goes to prison,” Julian said. “You know what prison does to women like her. Quiet. Small. You want that?” 

Roman flinched. 

Julian knew his wound. He knew Roman would suffer to atone. He knew Roman would push me away to protect me. 

He was using it. 

“Sign the paper,” Roman said to me. His voice broke. “Sign it. Please.” 

The room went silent. 

Singh lowered her gun. She could not arrest him. Not for talking. Not yet. 

It was my choice. 

Again. 

Sign away the clinic. The trust. The future Roman gave me at eighteen. The one thing that was mine. The thing that proved I was more than Victor’s pawn. 

Or let Julian destroy me. Let him put me in a cell. Let Roman watch me get taken away, knowing it was his name that put me there. 

The man I loved was in a hospital bed, bleeding, begging me to give up the only thing that made me feel whole. 

Because he thought he was protecting me. 

Just like in high school. 

Just like Vegas. 

Just like the annulment. 

He was always deciding for me. 

And I let him. 

Until now. 

I walked to the bed. 

I did not look at Julian. I did not look at Singh. 

I looked at Roman. 

“Do you trust me?” I asked him. 

“Yes,” he said. No hesitation. 

“Then trust me now.” 

I picked up the envelope. The transfer papers. 

Julian smiled. 

I tore them in half. 

Then in half again. 

And again. 

The pieces fell to the floor. 

Julian’s smile died. 

“You stupid girl,” he said. 

“No,” I said. “I am not. I am Isla Monroe. I am a nurse. I save people. That is what I do.” 

I turned to Singh. “Arrest me.” 

“Isla,” Roman said. “No.” 

“If he wants to charge me, let him,” I said. “I am not signing away my life. Not for him. Not for you. Not anymore.” 

Singh stared at me. Then she nodded. Once. 

She did not pull out cuffs. She looked at Julian. 

“You are under arrest,” Singh said. 

Julian laughed. “For what? Talking?” 

“For conspiracy to commit murder,” Singh said. “Adrian said. Ten minutes ago. He gave you up. Said you paid him. Said you ordered the hit on Roman. We have it recorded.” 

The blood drained from Julian’s face. 

“You were buying time,” I said. “Stalling. Waiting for me to sign before they got here.” 

Julian lunged for the door. 

Singh was faster. She tackled him. He went down hard. 

Officers ran in. Cuffs. Shouting. 

It was over. 

I sank into the chair beside Roman’s bed. My legs would not hold me. 

He reached for my hand. I gave it to him. 

His fingers were cold. But his grip was strong. 

“You could go to prison,” he whispered. 

“I know,” I said. 

“Why?” he asked. “Why risk it?” 

I looked at him. Really looked. At the man who changed his will for me. Who took bullets for me. Who told me he loved me with blood on his lips. 

“Because you gave me that clinic to make me safe,” I said. “But I do not want to be safe. I want to be brave. And brave people do not sign away their lives.” 

He brought my hand to his mouth. Kissed my knuckles. 

“I do not deserve you,” he said. 

“You do not get to decide that,” I said. “I do.” 

He smiled. Real this time. 

Then his eyes drifted shut. 

“Roman?” I said. 

His grip went slack. 

The heart monitor screamed. 

Flatline. 

“Code blue,” I yelled. “I need a crash cart now.” 

Nurses ran in. Singh pushed me back. 

“Isla, let them work,” she said. 

I could not breathe. 

He was stable. He was talking. He was alive. 

What happened? 

A doctor pushed past me. “He is in V-fib. Charging to 200.” 

They cut his gown. Paddles. 

“Clear.” 

His body jumped. 

The monitor kept screaming. 

“Again. Charging to 300. Clear.” 

I could not watch. 

I looked at the floor. 

At the torn papers. 

At the folder Julian dropped. 

It was open. 

A photo had slipped out. 

Not me. 

Not of Singh. 

Of Rome. 

In the hospital. From three days ago. 

When Victor was still alive. 

Roman was standing over Victor’s bed. 

Holding a pillow.