He’s Asking For You

Elias's snore resounds through the suite.

Midnight was just two hours and fifty three minutes away. 

I sat down on the edge of the balcony, my legs dangling over the Atlantic, the keycard to Room 412 was still in my palm.

The pendant Alaric has made for me caught the moonlight, it's tiny, sharp and perfect. 

A promise of both threat and ruin

My phone buzzed again. Unknown number. It was Alaric.

If you are scared, text 911. I will come. 

I stared at the screen until the screen dimmed, then I slipped the phone into my pocket.

Elias stirred in his sleep, I froze. He then rolled over still asleep. I exhaled sharply.

At 11:47 p.m., I walked barefoot to the bathroom, then locked the door and opened the video again. 

Alaric in his clinic, his sleeves rolled up, and in a hushed voice, “I miss you. Come to me.” He said. My knees weakened.

I pressed my forehead on the bathroom tile wall, replaying the way he had kissed the bruise on my wrist like an apology.

Midnight came, I didn't move an inch. The keycard was still in my hand, unspent. 

I reminded myself that this was a caution. Told myself that I wasn't ready to shatter or leak everything going on.

But the truth tasted like a bitter sour coffee in my lips. It was more like I was confusing myself than convincing myself.

Then I returned back to join Elias in bed, but I couldn't sleep. I was stirring, thinking about my moment with Alaric, the hospital event and the dinner too.

By morning I was already tired with bags under my eyes as I sat in the passenger seat of Elias's rental.

 He drove too fast, I was barely breathing well.  One of his hands was on the wheel, while the other hand was on my thigh.

His hand on my thigh was Possessive, and casual like he was laying claim as usual.

“You were restless,” he said, looking over at me. “Bad dreams?”

“Jet lag,” I lied.

He squeezed my thigh. “We will fix that tonight.” 

Back in the city by noon, I claimed I had a work emergency to Elias and then escaped back to my apartment.

The silence in my apartment was deafening. I showered, scrubbed my body with my body wash and stood under the shower until the water ran cold.

I dried my body, applied lotion then wore a silk dress.

At 2:17 p.m., my phone lit up. St. Lucia Hospital.

Follow-up appointment rescheduled for professional reasons. Tomorrow, 4 p.m. – Dr. Stone.

No signature. No warmth. Just clinical precision.

I stared at the message, pulse quickened. Professional reasons. Right. But what does he mean? 

I arrived early, dressed in a gray charcoal sheath dress. I look modest and elegant.

If no one will compliment me, I will.

The waiting room felt smaller, the antiseptic hospital smell filled my nose. When the nurse called my name, my legs carried me on autopilot.

I walked into the exam room again. There was still the same paper sheet, the same stirrups. But this time it was different.

Alaric entered the room with a chart and a solid wall of distance.

“Miss Wren.” He didn’t look up. 

“Bloodwork’s perfect. Your hormones are stable. Any new symptoms?”

The formality hit me hard. I wasn't prepared for this.

I perched on the table, my hands clasped. 

“No.”

He nodded, scribbling on his chart.

 “Good. Then we can discharge you from routine care.” 

And then he finally met my eyes, his brown eyes were guarded. “Unless there’s something else.”

The air thickened. I swallowed hard. 

“There is.”

He set the chart down, slowly. “Isola…..”

“You kissed me,” I said, my voice steady. “You made me a necklace out of broken glass. You made love to me. Don’t pretend this is routine.”

He clenched and unclenched his jaw. Then he stepped closer, close enough for me to smell cedar and pine cologne on him.

 “That was a mistake.” His voice dropped. “My son is volatile. You’ve seen it. You live it. Walk away before he drags you under.”

I laughed, my laugh was soft, incredulous. “You think I don’t know volatility? I’ve been managing Elias for months. I’m not some fragile intern.”

“You’re twenty-eight,” he said, almost like he was pleading. 

“He’s my blood. I know what he’s capable of doing when he feels threatened. And he will feel threatened.”

His hand lifted, and then hovered near my cheek, then fell. “I lost my wife to complications I couldn’t fix. I won’t lose you to my son’s temper.”

The confession hung between us, raw, his voice sounded broken.

I reached for his hand, and laced our fingers. “Then help me leave him. Don't warn me. Help me.”

He closed his eyes. When he opened them, the distance was back, but this time colder.

 “I can’t. Not without destroying everything. You, me, the hospital.” He pulled free. “This ends here.”

He turned to leave. I slid off the table, and rushed towards the door blocking it. “Alaric.”

He stopped, his shoulders rigid.

“You don’t get to decide for me,” I said. “Not you. Not Elias.”

For a moment, I thought he would kiss me again, right here in the fluorescent light. Instead, he opened the door. “Go home, Isola. Lock your doors.”

I left with a clean bill of health and a heart in pieces.

That night, Elias arrived unannounced, with a bouquet of white roses in hand. “I missed you,” he said, kissing my cheek.

But his eyes were sharp, scanning me and all over my body. “Dad called.  He said you had a follow up.”

My stomach dropped. “Routine.”

He set the roses down, the petals are too perfect. “He doesn’t do routine. Not with patients.” 

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Stay away from him, Isola. This is family business.”

I laughed it off. “He’s your father.”

“Exactly.” His hand settled on my neck, thumb stroking my neck down to my back. 

“I know him better than you. He collects broken things. Fix them. Then discard them when they’re whole.”

The pendant on my skin was still a reminder. I stepped back. 

“I’m not a thing.”

“No,” he said softly. “You’re mine.”

He left at ten, promising to get me breakfast. I locked the door, double-checked it, then sank to the floor. 

My phone buzzed, it was Alaric.

He’s lying. I don’t discard. I protect.

I didn’t reply.

At 11:43 p.m., the landline rang, it was shrill, and insistent. I never used it. I stared at it, then picked it up.

“Isola Wren?” A woman’s voice, clipped. “This is St. Lucia ER. Elias Stone was in an accident.

 You’re listed as his emergency contact. He’s asking for you.”

My throat went dry.

“He’s… asking for me?”

But the line had already gone dead.