Chapter 5 The Rules

Ryker's pov

He walked to the desk and rested both hands on the edge. “Sienna is stable for now. The amnesia is real. The pregnancy is real. Any sudden emotional shock can still send her blood pressure up and put the baby at risk. That is the only fact that matters in this room.”

The words hit like they were meant to. I already knew the medical part. Hearing it from him made it worse. “I’m the father.”

“You’re the man who handed her a check and told her she was a distraction the same night a car nearly killed her. That is also a fact.”

My jaw locked. The check. I could still see her face when I put it on the desk. I had told myself it was cleaner that way. Cleaner for who, I still couldn’t answer. “You don’t get to rewrite what happened between us.”

“I’m not rewriting it. I’m containing it. She has no memory of you. She believes I am her husband. That belief is currently keeping her calm. You will not take it from her.”

Containing it. Like she was a problem to manage. Like the two years we had were something that needed to be locked away for her own good. “You lied to her.”

“I gave her a version of reality that doesn’t send her into crisis. The hospital backs the decision. The neurology team backs it. You don’t get a vote.”

I took a step closer. The floor felt solid under my shoes but nothing else did. “You can’t keep me from her.”

“I can and I will. From this point forward you are a corporate acquaintance who heard about the accident through company channels. You may visit only when I or the attending nurse clears it. You will not mention the past. You will not mention the child. You will not try to trigger any memory. One wrong sentence and security removes you permanently.”

Corporate acquaintance. The phrase sat in my chest like something sharp. Two years of late nights and quiet mornings reduced to that. “That’s not your call.”

“It is exactly my call. I am the chief of surgery and the physician of record. The moment you become a medical risk to my patient, you lose access. Permanently.”

I stared at him. Part of me wanted to put a fist through the wall just to feel something break that wasn’t already broken. “You enjoy this.”

“I enjoy knowing she is alive and the baby is still safe. Everything else is secondary.”

Secondary. The word scraped. “She loved me.”

“She loved a version of you that no longer exists. The man standing in front of me paid her to leave and walked away. That man does not get to walk back in and demand recognition.”

My hands curled at my sides. I could still hear my own voice from that night telling her she was convenient. I had believed it was the practical thing to say. Now the practical thing was standing here while another man told me I had no right to the truth. “You don’t know what she and I were.”

“I know enough. I read the employment file. I saw the transfer of the apartment lease. I saw the check that was in her bag when they brought her in. I know exactly how you ended it.”

He had gone through the papers. Of course he had. Every cold detail I left behind was now evidence against me. “You went through her things.”

“I went through what the paramedics recovered so I could make decisions that kept her breathing. That included every piece of paper that explained how she ended up alone on a wet street.”

Silence sat between us for a few seconds. The only sound was the low hum of the air system. I kept seeing her hand on her stomach that night, the way she had started to speak and then stopped when I shut her down.

I spoke first. “How long do you plan to keep this up?”

“As long as her mind and the pregnancy require it. Weeks. Months. Until the doctors say the risk has dropped. Maybe longer.”

Weeks. Months. The thought of watching her smile at him for that long made my throat tight. “And when her memory comes back?”

“If it comes back, we deal with the truth then. Not before. Not on your timeline.”

I laughed once, short and empty. The sound felt wrong in the quiet room. “You’re using medical authority to keep her.”

“I’m using medical authority to keep her alive. There’s a difference. You should learn it.”

He straightened and walked around the desk until he stood only a few feet away. “Here are the rules one more time so there is no confusion. You do not speak about the relationship. You do not speak about the pregnancy as yours. You do not attempt private conversations without clearance. You do not contact her by phone, message, or any other means outside of supervised visits. If you break any of those conditions, I will document it as a threat to patient stability and have you barred from the building.”

Each rule landed like another door closing. I catalogued them the same way I used to catalogue deal points, except this time every point took something from me. “And if I ignore you?”

“Then you will find out how quickly a hospital can close ranks when a patient’s safety is involved. Try me if you need proof.”

I held his gaze. Part of me wanted to test it just to see how far he would go. The smarter part already knew the answer. “You think you’ve won.”

“I think the only person who matters right now is the woman in that room who cannot remember the last four years of her life. Winning doesn’t enter into it.”

“You’re comfortable living a lie every day she looks at you and calls you husband.”

“I’m comfortable knowing that lie is the reason she isn’t spiraling. Comfort has nothing to do with truth right now. Survival does.”

Survival. The word I should have thought about the night I put the envelope in her hands. “She deserves the truth.”

“She deserves to stay alive and deliver a healthy child. Those two things come first. Everything you want comes after, if it comes at all.”

I took another step. My voice came out lower. “You don’t get to decide what she deserves.”

“I already did. The charts, the scans, and the neurology reports decided with me. You are not on that list.”

He moved past me toward the door. I turned with him. The space between us felt wider than the room.

“Knox.”

He stopped with his hand on the handle.

“She is going to remember eventually.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, you will not be the one who forces it.”

“And when she does remember, she’ll know you kept her from me.”

“When she remembers, she’ll also know you were the reason she was alone that night. I’ll take my chances with that conversation if it ever arrives.”

He opened the door and stepped into the hallway. He didn’t look back. The door stayed open behind him.

I stood alone in the office. The chair on the other side of the desk was empty. The window showed a slice of gray sky and the edge of the parking lot. My fists were still closed at my sides. I could still feel the shape of the check in my hand from that night, the way the paper had been heavier than it should have been.

I looked at the open doorway and the quiet corridor beyond it. Somewhere down that hall Sienna sat believing another man was the one who belonged beside her. The rules were clear. The price of breaking them was clear.

I had walked away from her once with a check and a few cold sentences. Now I was the stranger who had to ask permission just to stand in the same room. The empty chair in front of me felt like the only thing I still had any claim to, and even that was temporary.