CHAPTER 2 — WHEN THE WORLD WOKE WITHOUT ME

Leo's POV

Darkness held me like punishment. It pressed against my ears, filled my mouth, and wrapped my body until I couldn’t tell where I ended and nothing began.

At first, I thought I was dreaming. That I’d wake up to the sound of the sea brushing against the rocks below the estate, that I’d stretch, dress, and go back to pretending my life was still the picture people envied. Maybe I’d even forget the image of Valentina tangled with another man.

But the light came back in pieces. It didn’t comfort, it accused. Thin slices of morning leaking through hospital blinds, cutting across my face like blame.

And then came the pain. Slow at first, deep and unfamiliar, until it started to scream from beneath my skin. Machines beeped, voices whispered, footsteps moved around me but none of them were mine.

When I tried to move, nothing happened. My body betrayed me completely. Panic surged hot and fast. I tried to shout, but what came out was only a sound, a broken rasp that didn’t belong to me.

A cool hand touched my forehead. “You’re safe,” someone said.

Safe. The word burned. I hadn’t felt safe in years — not in my family’s house, not with Valentina, not anywhere.

Then a doctor’s voice, quiet, too gentle. “Mr. D’Angelo, can you squeeze my hand?”

I tried but nothing. The silence that followed was worse than pain because silence, I realized, meant confirmation.

I wanted to ask the question but couldn’t form the words. He saw it anyway.

“There was an accident,” he said carefully. “You’ve suffered a spinal injury. We’re still running tests, but… for now, focus on breathing.”

For now. The words didn’t fool me. They never meant temporary. I stared at the ceiling, tracing the faint shadows cast by the blinds. If I hadn’t gone to her. If I’d just let that message sit unanswered.

If I’d ignored the jealousy that didn’t even belong to love. Maybe I’d still have legs that listened when I spoke to them.

My father visited once, maybe twice. He didn’t ask if I was okay. He asked when I could resume “public appearances.” He left a folder of “arrangements.” A hospital transfer. A damage control statement.

My accident had become a press release before I could even process it.

Valentina never came — not even once. The tabloids filled in the silence for her. Heir to D’Angelo Empire in Critical Condition. Fiancée Missing in Action.

And beneath every headline, a photo of my wrecked Ferrari — twisted metal, shattered glass, a mirror of my choices.

Days blurred. I existed between sedatives and humiliation. I’d wake up angry and fall asleep numb. The nurses pitied me, the doctors pitied me, and I hated every single one of them for it.

Then, one morning, she appeared.

They introduced her as if she were another prescription. “New caregiver,” someone said. “Highly recommended.”

She was ordinary — no makeup, no perfume, just clean skin and a faint scent of lemon. Her braid swung gently as she moved, her steps unhurried but sure. She didn’t look around like everyone else did. She looked at me. Straight at me.

“You’re Leonardo D’Angelo,” she said simply. Her voice had a quiet strength, an accent touched by the southern coast. “I’m Maya. I’ll be helping with your rehabilitation.”

Maya. I wanted to tell her to leave. I didn’t want another stranger watching me crumble. But she had that kind of presence that didn’t ask for permission.

“You’re here because they told you to be?” I muttered, my voice low, and rough.

She shrugged lightly. “I’m here because you need help. Whether you want it or not.”

Her words landed like a slap. “Mr. D’Angelo,” my father’s lawyer interrupted from the doorway. “We’ll need your signature for—”

“Not now,” I snapped. The sound of my own defiance startled me. It was the first real thing I’d said since the crash.

Maya didn’t flinch. She unpacked her things calmly, pulling on gloves like a ritual. Then, in a voice stripped of pity, she said, “Let’s see what you can do.”

She drew back the blanket carefully. I braced for her reaction — the flinch, the quick look away, the soft pity people can’t hide. But it never came. Her eyes moved with steady focus, taking inventory, not judgment.

“Are you in pain?” she asked.

“Always,” I lied.

Her lips curved, not into a smile, but something close to understanding. “Pain fades. Regret doesn’t. But you’ll learn to live with both.”

Something twisted in my chest. I didn’t want to hear truth from her mouth, not when it sounded so much like my own thoughts.

She guided me through small movements — my arms, my shoulders. When she asked me to try moving my toes, I did. Nothing. The air left me like someone had punched it out.

“You can be angry,” she said softly. “But don’t stay there. Anger doesn’t rebuild anything.”

“How would you know?” I bit out. She met my eyes without hesitation. “Because I’ve had to rebuild. Not like you, maybe. But enough to understand what it costs.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke. I looked at her. There was no pity, no hunger for what I used to be. Just a calm steadiness, the kind you only earn after losing something and surviving it.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I said finally.

“Why?” she asked quietly. “Because I remind you of what you lost? Or because I’m not from your world?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. When she left that day, the room felt heavier and quieter but not empty.

Her voice stayed with me, threaded between the beeps of the machines, the soft hum of fluorescent lights, the echo of that single decision that ruined everything.

If I hadn’t gone to her. If I hadn’t opened that door.

Maybe I’d still have my legs.

Maybe I’d still have my pride.

Maybe I’d still believe I could love someone like Valentina.

But I did go.

And because of her — because of curiosity I didn’t need — I lost everything.

And now, because of Maya, I felt something I hadn’t in years: the possibility that someone might see me, not the heir, not the brand, just Leo.