Heart Racing Like Crazy

“Where is Grandma’s recipe book?” Alya asked in a hoarse voice that was barely audible.

Alya jolted awake, pushing herself into a sitting position on the soft hospital bed. Her head was still spinning, and her chest felt tight from the lingering effects of the smoke she had inhaled during the fire. Her eyes immediately darted around the spacious, white-themed VIP room in a panic.

“Relax. Your book is safe here. I didn’t steal it,” Arga replied in a deep voice that sounded utterly exhausted.

Alya turned toward the side of the bed. Arga Mahendra was sitting in a chair, slowly straightening his tall, broad frame, which had been hunched over after he dozed off while keeping watch over her. The dignified CEO looked utterly disheveled, a far cry from his usual immaculate appearance at the office.

His slicked-back hair was a mess, faint traces of ash still marked his handsome face, and he was wearing nothing but a hospital gown. His right arm, from the skin near his elbow down to the back of his hand, was now covered in thick white bandages.

Did he get hurt protecting me from that burning wooden beam? Alya wondered, her emotions suddenly in turmoil as guilt stabbed her in the pit of her stomach.

Arga picked up a worn leather-bound journal lying on the bedside table and handed it to Alya with his uninjured left hand.

“Hold on to this. You almost died for it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Arga,” Alya whispered, hugging her grandmother’s recipe book tightly against her chest. She let out a sigh of relief knowing her family’s precious treasure had survived. “And... what about my father?”

“He’s in critical condition,” Arga replied briefly, adjusting the bandage on his hand as though it was uncomfortable. “He inhaled too much black smoke and is being treated in the intensive care unit of this hospital as well. Just in a different building.”

Alya fell silent, staring blankly at the hospital blanket.

Just let him be. He’s the reason those loan sharks came to our house in the first place, she muttered inwardly, her thoughts cold and indifferent. Whatever empathy she had left for her father had disappeared a long time ago.

Arga simply nodded in understanding at Alya’s cold reaction, making no attempt to judge her or ask any further questions. He slowly rose to his feet, then pointed toward a large shopping bag resting on the sofa table.

“I’ve asked my secretary to buy some fresh fruit and a few delicious dishes from a restaurant outside. Eat those if you don’t like the bland taste of hospital food,” Arga said as he walked toward the exit. “I’ve also given you a few days off until you’ve fully recovered.”

“Where are you going, Mr. Arga?” Alya asked instinctively before she could stop herself.

Arga paused near the door and glanced back slightly without turning around completely.

“Back to my own hospital room next door. Get some rest.”

The VIP room door closed slowly. Alya leaned back against her pillows, staring at the bag of food Arga had left her with mixed feelings.

Although she still considered their recipe partnership contract a cruel corporate trap, she couldn’t lie to herself about the fact that Arga had just risked his life to save her. Her sense of respect for him as her superior had grown several times over.

---

An hour later, Alya decided to get out of bed. She was feeling much better after receiving oxygen and intravenous fluids. As she stepped out of her room, she asked a passing nurse a question and only then realized something that made perfect sense.

“Oh, Ms. Alya? Yes, this is the same Central Hospital where your grandmother is being treated. However, the VIP building is separate from the general ICU building to the west,” the nurse explained kindly.

So we're in the same hospital. Good. I can visit Grandma while I'm here, Alya thought with relief.

Alya walked along the glass corridor connecting the inpatient wards. However, her steps suddenly slowed when she passed a slightly open VIP room door next to hers.

Room 911.

Through the transparent glass panel in the door, Alya saw Arga sitting alone on the edge of his bed.

A tray full of hospital food sat on the rolling table in front of him. Arga appeared lost in thought, staring at the bowl of soup before him with his brow deeply furrowed. With his right hand wrapped in thick bandages, he was struggling even to hold a spoon with his left hand, which wasn't his dominant one. Several times, the spoon clattered against the tray and slipped from his grasp because of his awkward movements.

He’s hungry, but he can’t eat because his hand was injured saving me.

Alya’s reluctance suddenly stirred within her. She wanted to ignore him and go visit her grandmother, but her conscience strongly refused to let her treat the man who had saved her life so callously.

Alya let out a short sigh before slowly pushing the door open, producing a faint creaking sound.

“Excuse me, Mr. Arga.”

Arga flinched slightly, immediately shifting his sharp, hawk-like gaze toward the door. His previously troubled expression returned to its usual calm and authoritative mask within seconds.

“Alya? Why aren’t you resting in your room?”

“I’m feeling better, sir,” Alya replied, awkwardly approaching Arga’s bed. She promptly picked up the bowl of soup and spoon from the table in front of him. “Let... let me feed you.”

Arga froze for a moment, looking extremely awkward and unprepared for this sudden display of concern.

“There’s no need, Alya. I can manage with my left hand. My secretary should be here in a few hours, and—”

“Don’t be stubborn, sir. Your hand was injured because of me,” Alya interrupted firmly, refusing to accept any objections.

She scooped up a little warm soup, gently blew on it to cool it down, then held the spoon in front of Arga’s full lips.

“Open your mouth.”

Arga stared at Alya for several seconds, making the atmosphere in the room suddenly feel warm and stirring something deep inside her.

But in the end, the CEO swallowed his pride. He opened his mouth and accepted Alya’s first spoonful with stiff, awkward movements.

“Thank you,” Arga murmured in his increasingly hoarse baritone after swallowing the food.

“I should be the one thanking you, sir,” Alya said, carefully scooping up another spoonful.

“I also want to apologize for accusing you of all sorts of things in the clinic parking lot. And... thank you so much for recklessly rushing into the fire to save me, my father, and Grandma’s recipe book.”

Arga didn’t answer. He simply kept watching Alya’s face, which was very close to his whenever she brought the spoon to his mouth.

The physical closeness in the silent room suddenly triggered a fleeting, hazy memory in Alya’s mind: the warm touch of this man’s bare skin in the hotel room.

Her face flushed red all over again.

Damn it, why is my heart racing like crazy again? Alya cursed inwardly, trying to focus on the bowl of soup so she wouldn’t embarrass herself in front of her boss.

After half the food on the tray had been eaten, Arga raised his left hand to signal Alya to stop. He calmly reached for a tissue, wiped his lips, then leaned back against the headboard and looked at Alya with his hawk-like eyes, which had suddenly turned ice-cold and piercing.

“Alya, about the fire at your house...” Arga began, his voice dropping to a probing, investigative tone that instantly made the atmosphere in the room turn ominous.

Alya cleared away the empty bowl, then furrowed her brow in confusion.

“Yes, sir? What about the fire? It was an electrical short circuit, wasn’t it?”

Arga slowly shook his head, his gaze locking onto Alya’s eyes with an intense, palpable tension.

“The firefighters found traces of fuel at three separate points along the outside walls of your house. Someone deliberately set your house on fire, Alya.”