Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The sterile white corridors of St. Mary's Hospital seemed to stretch endlessly as Damien sat motionless in his wheelchair, his hands clenched so tightly in his lap that his knuckles had turned bone white. The metallic scent of disinfectant mixed with the copper tang of blood that still lingered on his wedding suit, creating a nauseating cocktail that made his stomach churn. Around him, the waiting area buzzed with anxious energy as both sets of parents paced, whispered, and cast worried glances toward the operating room doors that had swallowed his bride—his wife—hours ago.

Helena Cross sat rigidly in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, her elegant wedding attire now wrinkled and stained with Sadie's blood from when she had tried to help at the scene. Her hands trembled as she clutched a tissue, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. Edmund Cross stood behind her chair, his large hands resting protectively on his wife's shoulders, though his own face was etched with lines of worry and confusion.

"She saved him," Helena whispered for what felt like the hundredth time, her voice thick with emotion. "That beautiful girl threw herself in front of a blade to save our son. What kind of love must that be, to make such a sacrifice for someone you've barely met?"

Eleanor Blake nodded tearfully from her position beside Thomas, who stood stone-faced and grim as he stared at the operating room doors. "She's always been impulsive, our Sadie," Eleanor murmured. "But this... this is something else entirely. The way she looked at Damien during the ceremony, the certainty in her voice when she said she chose him..."

"She's going to be fine," Thomas Blake declared, his voice firm despite the worry etched across his features. "Sadie is strong. She's a fighter. She'll pull through this."

Derek lounged against the wall nearby, his usual air of casual indifference cracked by genuine concern. His dark hair was disheveled from running his hands through it repeatedly, and his sharp eyes kept darting between Damien's eerily still form and the operating room doors. Every few minutes, he would push off from the wall as if to pace, then seem to remember himself and resume his position.

But Damien barely heard any of their words. His mind was racing, churning through possibilities and memories with the relentless efficiency of a machine. The initial shock and gratitude he had felt when Sadie threw herself in front of Marcus's blade was rapidly giving way to something much darker and more familiar: suspicion.

In his previous life, there had been no wedding. No bride. No mysterious woman choosing him out of three suitors. He had been left standing at the altar, humiliated and broken, while Sadie Blake had been planning her own wedding to Marcus Whitmore. The timeline didn't match, the circumstances didn't align, and the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that this entire scenario was an elaborate setup.

The realization hit him like a physical blow, stealing what little breath he had left. Marcus and Sadie had orchestrated this entire charade. The mysterious bride, the dramatic choice, the passionate declaration of love, even the attack—all of it carefully planned to achieve some twisted goal he couldn't yet fathom. Perhaps they wanted to get close to him, to gain his trust before destroying him more completely than they ever could have with simple humiliation. Perhaps this was Marcus's idea of the perfect revenge: making Damien believe he was loved before ripping that illusion away.

The thought that he had actually begun to hope, that he had allowed himself to believe someone might genuinely want him, made bile rise in his throat. He had been such a fool, sitting there at the altar like a lovesick teenager as Sadie performed her role to perfection. The gentle kiss, the protective stance, the willingness to take a blade for him—all of it an act worthy of the finest theater.

"Damien?" Derek's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, sharp with concern. "You look like you're about to be sick. You need some air?"

"I'm fine," Damien replied automatically, his voice hollow and distant. He couldn't tell Derek the truth, couldn't explain about his previous life or his growing certainty that this was all an elaborate con. Derek would think he had lost his mind, and his parents... his parents would never forgive him for suggesting that the woman who had just taken a blade for him was anything other than a saint.

"No, you're not fine," Derek observed, pushing off from the wall to crouch beside Damien's wheelchair. His voice dropped to a whisper meant only for Damien's ears. "You've been sitting there like a statue for the past three hours, and you have that look on your face—the same one you get when you're planning something particularly self-destructive."

Before Damien could respond, the operating room doors swung open with a pneumatic hiss that made everyone in the waiting area freeze. Dr. Patricia Hendricks emerged, still wearing her surgical scrubs but with her mask pulled down to reveal a tired but reassuring smile.

"The patient is stable," she announced, and the collective sigh of relief from both families was audible throughout the corridor. "The blade missed any vital organs, though it did cause some internal bleeding that we were able to repair. She's going to need several weeks of recovery, but I expect a full healing."

Helena Cross burst into fresh tears of relief, while Eleanor Blake pressed her hands to her mouth in gratitude. The fathers clasped each other's shoulders in the way men do when words fail them, their faces bright with relief.

"Can we see her?" Thomas Blake asked, his voice hoarse with emotion.

Dr. Hendricks nodded. "She's still under anesthesia, but she should wake up within the next few hours. Two visitors at a time, please, and keep visits brief. She needs her rest."

As the families began discussing visiting arrangements, Damien felt the familiar phantom pain shooting through his useless legs—a stress response he had learned to recognize over the years. The combination of emotional turmoil and physical tension was making his disability feel even more pronounced, a constant reminder of his vulnerability.

"I need to go home," he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the excited chatter. "My legs... the pain medication is wearing off, and I need to take my evening pills."