Chapter Three

The morning came quieter than I expected.

No dramatic sun slicing through the blinds. No internal monologue narrating some cinematic new beginning. Just light. Soft and ordinary, brushing the wall across from where I lay curled up on the couch in the guest room.

I hadn’t meant to sleep there, but after everything—after the tears, the reunion, the long silence with Maya and the tight-lipped smile from Mom—I couldn’t bring myself to climb into a bed that felt too familiar and too far away at once.

And for the first time in months, I hadn’t taken the pills.

I let the night hit me full force. No chemical fog to dim it down. No numbness to hide behind.

Just me, wide awake in the dark, listening to the house breathe—Nadia’s soft sleep mumble down the hall, the groan of old wood settling, the tick of the wall clock I used to hate as a kid.

I stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, eyes dry but stinging. My body didn’t know what to do with all the silence. My brain kept replaying everything—the way Dad held me, the crack in Maya’s voice, the space I’d left behind.

The ache didn’t scream. It whispered. Relentlessly.

The resignation letter was still folded neatly in my bag, soft at the edges now.

I wasn’t going back to work. Not really. Just back to the place that had nearly hollowed me out, to hand over a piece of paper that said: I’m done.

I dressed slowly. Jeans. Plain t-shirt. Hair tied back. No makeup. No perfume. Just me—washed out but awake.

When I came downstairs, Mom was at the stove, her back to me. She turned only slightly when she heard me and held out a travel mug of coffee without looking.

I took it. “Thanks.”

“You going in?”

I paused. “Just to drop something off.”

She didn’t push. Didn’t ask. Just nodded like she already understood.

Nadia was still asleep, sprawled out on the living room floor like a sun-dazed cat. Maya was nowhere to be seen. I didn’t blame her. Things like forgiveness take time. And we were still early on the clock.

I got into the car, my hand hovering over the ignition like starting it might set off something irreversible. Maybe it would. I turned the key anyway.

The roads to the hospital were something I would never forget, even if I went blind. Same stoplights. Same coffee shop I used to hit before night shifts. Same gas station with the flickering sign.

But driving at that moment felt different. Like I was headed toward a grave I’d dug for myself.

The closer I got, the tighter my chest became.

It wasn’t just a job I was leaving. It was the memories. The version of me who still believed she could outrun grief by helping everyone else manage theirs.

Now I was going back—not to save anyone. Just to say goodbye.

I walked through the hospital doors with the letter clenched in my fist, like it might fly away if I let it go for even a second.

The smell hit me first—antiseptic and old coffee and something else, something sad that always lingered in those halls.

Carla was at the front desk, scribbling notes without looking up. Her pen stilled mid-sentence when she saw me.

“Gabriella?”

I nodded. “Just here to drop this off.”

Her eyes flicked to the paper in my hand. She didn’t ask what it was. She didn’t have to. Word travels fast in places like this.

I was two steps from handing her the envelope when the double doors slammed open behind me. The sound cracked through the quiet like a gunshot.

“Trauma incoming!” someone yelled. “Male, early-thirties, MVA with head trauma and suspected spinal — VIP transport. Bay 2 now!”

VIP?

I turned.

A swarm of paramedics rushed through, surrounding a stretcher like a moving fortress. The man on it was in a blood-streaked suit, the shirt torn open, expensive fabric soaked through.

Even unconscious, he looked powerful. Broad shoulders. Sharp jawline. A face that belonged on magazine covers, not in triage. But there was blood running from his hairline, and his lips were pale.

It hit me like a wave—so sharp, so familiar, my whole body went still.

I shouldn’t be here.

I wasn’t in scrubs. I wasn’t even on the schedule. Hell, I was supposed to be walking out of this building for the last time.

But then Carla’s voice rang out, sharp and breathless. “Gabriella! Can you assist? We’re short. Just to stabilize until we free up hands.”

I froze. The resignation letter was still crumpled in my hand, damp now from my grip.

“I’m not even in uniform,” I managed.

“Doesn’t matter, glove up. We need you now.”

And just like that, I was moving.

Muscle memory took over. I tossed my bag on the counter, shoved the letter underneath it, and followed the controlled chaos down the hall like a thread pulling me back into the version of myself I had just decided to leave behind.

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, cold and unyielding. The sterile smell of antiseptic stung my nose, but beneath it was something else — the sharp tang of adrenaline, panic, and hope tangled together.

My heartbeat thundered in my ears as we reached Bay 2. The paramedics worked with the precision of a well-oiled machine, voices clipped and professional, but the tension was palpable — like the entire room was holding its breath.

I dropped to my knees beside the stretcher, gloves pulling tight around my fingers as I moved on instinct. My hands were steady. My thoughts weren’t.

His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven rhythms. Blood soaked the side of his suit, and the gash above his eyebrow was still leaking. I was about to check his responsiveness when his eyes opened — sudden, jarring — and locked on mine.

I froze. Just for a second.

He wasn’t supposed to be awake. Not yet. Not like this.

“I’m Gabriella,” I said quietly, automatically, like my voice might anchor him. “I’ve got you, okay? You’re safe now.”

His eyes—dark, too dark to be trusting this fast—searched my face like he was trying to place me in a puzzle with no edges. His voice was rough, nearly broken. “You don’t look like the others.”

“I’m not,” I said. I didn’t even hesitate. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

He let out the faintest huff of breath. Almost a laugh. Then pain stole it, twisted his expression, and I saw it for what it was—a reflex. A way to keep breathing when it all hurt too much.

“Try not to move,” I murmured. “You’ve got metal fragments in you. You’re stable now, but I need you to let us keep it that way. No hero moves.”

He let his head roll slightly toward me, just enough to catch my eyes again. “I’ve been through worse,” he muttered.

I didn’t doubt it.

Not because of his words, but because of that look.

That fractured stillness.

“Bet you have,” I said, more to myself than to him, because there was something familiar there-a pain I recognized, one that didn’t just bruise skin but gnawed at the edges of the soul.

One of the EMTs muttered updates near me, their voice clipped but urgent: “Isaac Langton. Billionaire. Media mogul. Owns half the city’s newspapers and TV stations.”

The name meant nothing to me. But around the room, eyes flickered—some grim, some shocked, others taut with barely contained worry.

“He controls more headlines than any politician,” someone whispered, like saying it out loud might somehow change what was happening.

A nurse’s voice broke through. “Prep for surgery. STAT.”

I looked down at him. His eyes fluttered weakly, struggling to stay open. Then, almost suddenly, his hand reached out—a trembling, uncertain grasp that found mine. His fingers curled gently around my wrist, holding on with a fragile strength.

For a heartbeat, the noise of the hospital faded. It was just us—his warm skin against mine, the steady pulse beneath his palm, the silent promise in that fleeting touch.

Then his eyelids drooped, and he went unconscious again. His grip loosened but didn’t quite let go, like he was anchoring himself to me, to something real.

They moved fast, wheeling the stretcher away with practiced urgency, voices calm but edged with tension.

The door slid shut behind them, leaving a silence that felt heavier than before.

And in that quiet, I still felt the warmth of his hand—like a whisper that neither of us was quite ready to forget.