04 The Hand He Let Go

Damien’s POV

The sound of her body hitting the floor haunted me all night.

It replayed in my mind like a merciless echo, the panic in her eyes, the way her brother screamed her name, the chaos of guards pulling him away while Elena crumpled to the ground.

I had walked away.

I told myself it wasn’t my concern, that she had only fainted from the stress she’d brought upon herself. That was the lie I repeated as I drowned in glass after glass of scotch, but still her face, pale, fragile, beautiful, burned behind my eyes.

When I finally returned to the hospital, Isabella clung to me like a victim. Her tears wet my shirt as she whispered about the trauma she’d endured, how Elijah almost hit her.

I nodded, said the right words, and instructed my assistant to escort her for a check-up. My voice was calm, my body steady. But inside, I was restless.

The truth was, I didn’t give a damn about Isabella’s tears. Not that night. Not when Elena lay unconscious, her life flickering in and out like a candle flame.

I found myself outside her room, my hand resting on the cold metal of the doorknob. For ten minutes, I stood there, wrestling with myself.

I shouldn’t go in.

I shouldn’t care.

She and her mother had destroyed everything I believed in. She had stolen years of my life. She had stolen the woman I loved.

And yet…

I opened the door.

The sight of her knocked the air from my lungs. Why did I still care so much?

Elena lay curled against the white sheets, her lashes resting like shadows against her cheeks. Her brow was furrowed even in sleep, her lips trembling as if caught in a dream.

She looked… breakable. Too breakable for the accusations I had hurled at her. Too breakable for the slap that still burned on my palm.

I told myself to leave, but my legs betrayed me, carrying me closer until I stood by her bedside.

Her hand lay limp against the sheets, pale, cold. Before I could think, my fingers wrapped around hers.

The chill of her skin made my chest ache.

Why is she so cold?

Why did she faint like that?

She murmured my name then, soft and fragile, as if she were calling to me even in her dreams.

For a heartbeat, my chest cracked wide open. I tightened my grip on her hand, fighting the urge to gather her against me, to apologise, to demand she never scare me like that again.

But then I remembered the letter.

The transfer slips.

The words that accused her and her mother of engineering my parents’ near-death. They had proof, solid proof. 

I let go as if her touch burned.

This woman had lied to me for years. She had stolen my trust. If I weakened now, I’d be nothing more than a fool dancing on the strings she and her mother had tied around me.

I left before she could wake, scolding myself with every step I took down the hallway.

By morning, I sat in the hospital’s director’s office.

“You fired Elijah Carter,” I said coldly.

The director shifted nervously. “Miss Isabelle Stone insisted it was your order, sir. She said you wanted him gone.”

I slammed my fist against the desk, the sound rattling the glass of water beside him. “My word is law in this hospital, not hers. When I give an order, it comes from me, not through the whispers of a woman who isn’t even my wife.”

The director’s face went pale. “Forgive us, Mr. Rothschild. We thought, ”

“You thought wrong,” I cut in sharply.

The supervisor entered then, clutching a file. “Mr. Rothschild, it doesn’t matter. Elijah has already resigned. He handed in his Hospital Identity Card  and cleared out his office this morning.”

My teeth ground together. I had wanted him punished for his violent and unprofessional behaviour in the hospital, yes, but not like this. The boy had a brilliant future ahead. Why would he throw it away so recklessly?

“Do you know why Elena fainted?” I asked, my voice lower now, tighter.

The supervisor shook his head. “We don’t, sir. Elijah was her attending physician during her check-ups. If you’d like, I can access her medical records.”

My heart thudded. Medical records.

I was about to give the order when my PA knocked, interrupting us.

“Sir,” he said cautiously, “Miss Stone is asking for you. She’s… crying again.”

I exhaled slowly, frustration curling through me like smoke.

Of course she was crying. Isabella’s tears flowed too easily, always at the precise moment she needed my attention most.

I waved the supervisor off for now and rose from my seat.

As I followed my PA down the hall, my thoughts twisted back to the hospital bed I had left behind. To Elena’s cold hand, the way she whispered my name, the faintest tremor of her lips.

I told myself again it was nothing. That she was the architect of all my suffering.

But why, even now, did my heart still ache for a woman I swore I hated?