11. Hope

[Xavier’s POV]

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and stale air. Too clean, too still.

And yet, when I stepped inside, the sight before me hollowed me out from the inside.

Layla.

She lay motionless on the narrow hospital bed, her skin pale against the stark white sheets. An IV dripped slowly into her vein, a fragile thread of life tethering her here. Her lips were cracked, her lashes damp from tears dried too fast. Her arms—God—her arms bore bruises that darkened her skin, angry reminders of someone’s filthy hands.

My knees gave out before I could stop them. I dropped beside her bed, my palms clutching her cold hand. The ring I had fumbled with the night before now pressed against her skin again, though she wasn’t awake to feel it.

There were no words. No fury loud enough, no vow strong enough to fill the ache in my chest. All I could do was press my forehead against her fingers, breathing her name as though it would keep her here.

Layla.

The doctor worked quietly on her other side, wrapping gauze around her wrist, murmuring instructions to a nurse. His voice was steady, but his eyes—when they flicked to me—were laced with pity.

“She’s stable,” he said gently. “Dehydrated, severely fatigued. But… she’ll pull through. The bruises will heal. What she needs now is rest. And safety.”

Safety. The word rattled in my skull. Safety was mine to give. It was what I had sworn before God and the world. Yet here she was—broken, marked, and trembling on a bed that wasn’t her own.

Josh stepped into the room then, his expression grim. He waited until the doctor left before speaking.

“She was reported to us an hour ago,” he began, his voice tight. “Two men found her. Said she was being cornered by a group—five, maybe six of them. They fought them off.” His jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. “If they’d been a minute late…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. The thought was poison enough.

“She’s safe now,” he added quickly, though the words sounded thin. “Dehydrated. That’s all. No worse.”

My grip tightened on her hand until my knuckles whitened. I could feel the faint thrum of her pulse beneath my thumb—weak, but steady. My chest burned with something raw, something I didn’t want to name.

“Who sent them?” My voice was hoarse, quiet.

Josh hesitated. “The men didn’t say. But…” He glanced away, then back. “Everyone’s saying Celeste.”

Celeste. Of course. She had spat her venom not twenty-four hours ago, swearing Layla would die. The pieces fit too neatly. Too conveniently.

But as I looked at my wife lying broken before me, something in my gut twisted. Celeste was obsessed, reckless, but not calculated. This—this reeked of planning. Of shadow.

“She’s not smart enough for this,” I muttered, more to myself than to Josh.

“Then who—?”

I didn’t answer. Because I didn’t know. Not yet. But I would.

I brushed a strand of hair from Layla’s face, my touch featherlight, afraid she would shatter if I pressed too hard. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t Xavier Russell, the man with iron fists and a name that could topple industries. I was just a husband, kneeling at the side of a fragile girl I had sworn—against both our wills—to protect.

And right now, I was failing.

But I wouldn’t fail again.

I leaned down, close enough that only she could hear if she woke. “Rest, Layla. You’re safe now. I’ll keep you safe.”

Her fingers twitched faintly in mine. Or maybe I imagined it.

Josh cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “What do we tell the press?”

“Nothing,” I snapped, sharper than intended. I forced my voice calm. “Not a word until I know who did this. And when I find them…” My gaze hardened on her bruised skin. “…they’ll wish they never touched her.”

Josh nodded, stepping out to give me space.

The room fell quiet again, save for the steady drip of the IV. I stayed there, kneeling on cold tile, my hand wrapped around hers like a vow made flesh.

And for the first time in years, I prayed.

Not for mercy. Not for vengeance.

But that she would open her eyes.