Chapter 18: The Breath He Did Not Take

“Clear.”

His body jumped again. 

The monitor kept screaming. 

I could not breathe. I could not move. I could only watch. 

“Come on,” I whispered. “Come on, Roman.”

“Charging to 360. Clear.” 

This time he did not jump. He just lay there. Still. Too still. 

“Time of death,” the doctor said. “10:42 PM.” 

No. 

“Wait,” I said. My voice broke. “Try again.” 

“Isla,” Singh said behind me. Her hand was on my arm. “He is gone.” 

“He is not,” I said. I pulled away from her. “He promised. He said he always comes after me. He does not break promises.” 

I pushed past the nurses. To the bed. To him. 

His skin was still warm. His lips were parted. Like he was about to say my name. 

“Roman,” I said. I put my hands on his chest. “You do not get to leave. Not now. Not after you told me you love me. Not after I chose you.” 

Nothing. 

The flatline filled the room. 

I closed my eyes. 

And I did CPR. 

“Isla, stop,” a nurse said. “He is gone.” 

“I am a trauma nurse,” I said. My voice was not shaking. It was steel. “And I say he is not gone until I say he is gone.” 

I started compressions. One. Two. Three. 

“Get her out of here,” the doctor said. 

“Touch me and I will sue this hospital,” I said. “Keep bagging him.” 

I kept going. Thirty compressions. Two breaths. 

I remembered the first time I saw him in the ICU. Unidentified trauma patient. I thought it was justice. I thought I hated him. 

I did not. 

I never did. 

I loved him at seventeen. I loved him at twenty-eight. I loved him when he was cruel. I loved him when he was kind. 

And I love him now. 

“Come back,” I said. “Please. You said I always do. So do this for me. Come back.” 

Thirty more. 

My arms burned. 

Two breaths. 

The monitor beeped. 

Once. 

Twice. 

Then a rhythm. Weak. But there. 

“He has a pulse,” the doctor said. “We have a pulse.” 

I fell back. My hands were shaking. 

Singh caught me before I hit the floor. 

“He is alive,” Singh said. “You did it.” 

No. 

He did it. He came back. For me. 

They rushed him to surgery. GSW to the upper right chest. Missed the lung. Missed the artery. A miracle. 

I scrubbed in. 

I did not care about policy. I did not care about the law. I was not leaving him. 

I stood in the OR and watched them work. Every stitch. Every drop of blood. 

Four hours later, the surgeon looked at me. “He is stable. Critical, but stable. He lost a lot of blood. The next 24 hours are crucial.” 

I nodded. “Thank you.” 

I walked to Recovery. To the ICU. Back to 304. 

They let me sit with him. 

He was on a ventilator. Sedated. Tubes everywhere. 

But alive. 

I took his hand. It was warm again. 

“I am sorry,” I said. “For signing the annulment. For walking away. For making you think I did not want you.” 

His heart monitor beeped. Steady. 

“I do want you,” I said. “I want you without contracts. Without lies. Without your father or Julian or Adrian. Just you.” 

His fingers twitched in mine. 

Hope flared in my chest. 

Then the door opened. 

Singh. 

Her face was grim. 

“We have a problem,” she said. Of course we did. 

“What now?” I asked. 

“The photo,” Singh said. “Of Roman and Victor. The hospital pulled security footage. Time stamped. Three days ago. 1:17 AM.” 

The night Victor died. 

He was there,” I said. 

“He was,” Singh said. “And the footage cuts out for four minutes. When it comes back, Roman is leaving the room. Victor is dead in ten minutes.” 

No. 

“Roman would not,” I said. 

“Isla,” Singh said. Her voice was gentle. “The pillow. The photo. The timing. The DA is going to see it.” 

“He was trying to help him,” I said. “Victor was sick. Maybe Roman was adjusting his pillow. Maybe Victor asked him to.” 

“Maybe,” Singh said. “But we have to investigate. And until we do, Roman is a suspect in his father’s death.” 

My stomach dropped. 

That was the stronger threat. 

Not Adrian. Not Julian. 

The law. 

And I was vulnerable. Because I loved him. Because I saved him. Because I just tore up papers to protect him. 

If he was charged with murder, the morality clause in the trust would trigger. 

The clinic would dissolve. 

Everything he gave me would be gone. 

And I would lose him again. 

To prison. 

“Where is the footage now?” I asked. 

“Evidence lockup,” Singh said. “But Julian’s lawyer already filed a motion. He wants the footage. He wants the will thrown out. He says Roman killed Victor to get control early.” 

Julian. Even in cuffs, he was still playing. 

This complicated everything. 

I looked at Roman. At the ventilator. At the man who changed his will for me. Who took a bullet for me. 

Who might have killed his father. 

Did he? 

No. 

He could not have. 

But the photo. The pillow. 

He told me Victor beat him. He told me he hated him. 

Did hate turn into something else that night? 

I did not know. 

And that terrified me. 

Because I just told a dying man I loved him. I just brought him back with my own hands. 

What if I was wrong? 

What if the man I loved was a murderer? 

The door opened again. 

A hospital attorney. I knew her. Carol. 

“Isla,” Carol said. “I need to talk to you. It is about your medical proxy.” 

“Roman is alive,” I said. “He revoked it when he woke up.” 

“I know,” Carol said. “This is not about Rome.” 

She held out a paper. 

A court order. 

“Julian Kade filed for emergency guardianship,” Carol said. “Of you.” 

"What?” I said. 

“He claims you are mentally unstable. That the trauma of your father’s death and Roman’s bullying made you delusional. He says you are not fit to make decisions. He wants you committed for evaluation.” 

He was not going after Roman. Not directly. 

He was going after me. 

Because if I was declared incompetent, I could not control the trust. 

It would default to the next of kin. 

Roman. 

And Roman was sedated. Unable to consent. 

And if Roman was charged with murder, it would go to Julian. 

He was taking us both out. 

The urgency hit me like a punch. 

I had 72 hours before the hearing. 

Seventy-two hours to prove I was sane, Roman was innocent, and Julian was lying. 

Or I lost everything. 

I looked at Roman. At his closed eyes. At the bandages on his chest. 

“You have to wake up,” I whispered. “You have to tell me the truth. Did you do it?” 

Because I could not love a man I did not trust. Not again. 

The heart monitor beeped. 

Steady. 

No answer. 

Singh’s phone rang. She checked it. Her face went white. 

“Isla,” she said. “The security footage from Victor’s room. The four minutes that were missing.” 

She turned the screen to me. 

It was recovered. 

The video played. 

Roman walked in. He looked at Victor. 

Victor said something. 

Roman picked up the pillow. 

And he pressed it down. 

Over Victor’s face. 

Holding it there. 

For one minute. Two. 

Until Victor stopped moving.