Chapter Eighteen

Dante pov

The last thing I remembered before the anesthesia hit was the smell.

Not the clean kind of hospital smell. Not soap or alcohol.

Metal.

Cold, sharp, sterile metal.

It filled my lungs as I lay flat on the operating table, bright lights burning above me like artificial suns. Everything was too white. The ceiling. The walls. The sheets tucked too tightly around my body.

I hated hospitals.

Always had.

“Mr. Caruso,” the anesthesiologist said calmly. “I’m going to start the sedative now. You may feel lightheaded.”

Lightheaded was a lie.

It felt like my blood was turning into water.

My fingers twitched against the sheet. I tried to move them. Just to prove I still could.

“You’re in good hands,” someone else said. A woman’s voice. Soft. Professional.

Good hands.

That phrase meant nothing to men like me.

Men like me didn’t survive on good hands. We survived on control.

And right now, I had none.

A mask lowered over my face.

The metal smell deepened.

My chest tightened.

Not from fear.

From a thought.

Elara.

Her face flashed in my mind without permission sleepy eyes, hair falling over her shoulder, hand always drifting unconsciously to her stomach like she was already protecting something.

Protecting him.

My son.

I swallowed.

“Wait,” I said hoarsely.

The doctors paused.

“What is it, Mr. Caruso?”

I stared up at the ceiling, heart pounding.

“If I don’t wake up,” I said, voice barely steady, “everything I own goes to my heir.”

A beat of silence.

“We’re not planning on that,” the surgeon said gently.

“I am,” I replied.

They exchanged looks.

“Make sure Luca has the documents,” I added. “He knows what to do.”

The anesthesiologist leaned closer. “Dante, focus on breathing.”

I inhaled.

Metal. Cold. White.

And then

Darkness.

Not the peaceful kind.

The heavy kind.

Like sinking underwater with your eyes open.

Voices faded. Light disappeared. My body dissolved into nothing.

For a moment just a moment I wondered if this was what dying felt like.

Not pain.

Just… letting go.

And then everything vanished.

****************

I came back to sound first.

Beeping.

Slow. Rhythmic. Mechanical.

Then pain.

Not sharp. Not screaming.

Deep.

Like something had been rearranged inside me and forgotten to be put back properly.

My eyelids felt glued shut.

My throat burned.

My chest felt tight, heavy, unfamiliar.

I tried to speak.

Nothing came out.

Panic flared instantly.

I tried again, forcing air through my lungs.

“Easy,” a voice said immediately. “Don’t try to talk yet.”

I cracked my eyes open.

The room was dim this time. No blinding lights. No operating table.

A recovery ward.

Machines surrounded me. Tubes. Wires. Monitors.

I hated them all.

“You’re awake,” the nurse said softly. “That’s good.”

Awake.

So I hadn’t died.

That realization hit harder than it should have.

“How… long?” I croaked.

She leaned closer. “Surgery lasted six hours.”

Six.

My chest tightened painfully.

“And?” I demanded.

She hesitated.

That hesitation told me everything.

“Don’t do that,” I rasped. “Talk.”

She gave a small, careful smile. “The procedure was successful. The tumor was removed.”

The word removed felt unreal.

My heart thudded violently.

“And the damage?” I asked.

“The surrounding tissue responded well. No complications during surgery.”

I stared at the ceiling.

Still here.

Still breathing.

Still alive.

For now.

“When can I see my doctor?” I asked.

“Soon. Try to rest.”

Rest was impossible.

Every sensation felt amplified. The ache in my chest. The dryness in my mouth. The weight of the machines reminding me how close I’d come to not waking up at all.

Hours blurred.

In and out of sleep.

Dreams that felt too real. Elara standing in a hallway calling my name. A child crying. A heartbeat fading.

Each time I woke, my hand instinctively moved searching.

For something.

Someone.

Dr. Anand came later.

Mid-forties. Calm eyes. Too honest to lie convincingly.

“The surgery went as well as it could,” he said, standing at the foot of my bed.

“As it could,” I repeated. “Meaning?”

Meaning never meant good news.

“You were in critical condition when you arrived,” he said. “Your heart was under severe strain. The mass was affecting your circulation.”

“But you removed it.”

“Yes.”

“So I’m fine.”

He didn’t answer immediately.

I hated doctors.

“You’re stable,” he said carefully. “But recovery will take time. Your body has been fighting this for a long time, Dante.”

I exhaled slowly.

“How long do I have?” I asked bluntly.

He studied me.

“With treatment,” he said, “years. Possibly decades.”

My chest loosened slightly.

Possibly.

“But you’ll need strict monitoring. Lifestyle changes. Medication.”

“Will I be able to function?” I asked. “Work?”

He gave a faint smile. “You’re stubborn enough. Yes.”

Relief hit me harder than pain.

Years.

Not weeks.

Not months.

Years meant something.

Years meant

Elara wouldn’t raise my son alone.

The thought almost broke me.

“When can I leave?” I asked.

He sighed. “You just woke up from major surgery.”

“I don’t live in hospitals,” I replied.

“You will for a little while.”

I clenched my jaw.

“Call my people,” I said. “Tell them I’m awake.”

He nodded.

“And the woman who’s been calling every few hours?” he added.

My chest tightened instantly.

“Elara,” I said.

“Yes.”

My voice came out rough. “Don’t tell her anything until I’m fully conscious.”

“She knows you were in surgery.”

I closed my eyes.

That meant she’d been waiting.

Worrying.

Carrying my child with fear sitting in her chest.

Guilt spread through me like poison.

“Let me speak to her,” I said.

“Not yet,” the doctor replied. “Your vitals”

“I don’t care,” I cut in. “She deserves to know.”

He hesitated.

Then nodded.

****************

Elara’s phone rang while she was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing.

The number was unfamiliar.

International.

Her hands shook as she answered.

“Hello?”

“This is Saint Ananda Medical Center,” the voice said gently. “We’re calling regarding Mr. Dante Caruso.”

Her heart slammed violently.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Please. Tell me.”

There was a pause.

Just long enough to torture her.

“The surgery was successful.”

Her breath left her lungs in a sob.

“He’s alive?” she asked.

“Yes. He’s awake and stable.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks uncontrollably.

“Can I speak to him?”

“Not yet. He’s still under observation. But he asked us to inform you immediately.”

Elara pressed her hand to her stomach, crying silently.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you so much.”

She ended the call and collapsed back onto the bed, shaking.

Alive.

Dante was alive.

But somewhere in Thailand, lying in a hospital bed with scars across his chest and machines breathing beside him

Dante stared at the ceiling and realized something terrifying.

For the first time in his life, he wanted to live.

Not for power.

Not for legacy.

Not for revenge.

For a woman who wasn’t his fiancée.

And a child who wasn’t even born yet.

And he didn’t know what scared him more

The illness.

Or the fact that he finally had something to lose.

Back home, Elara smiled through tears, relief flooding her body.

But deep in Dante’s hospital room, as the machines beeped steadily…

His heart monitor faltered.

Just once.

A single, sharp, irregular beat.