Five minutes

Desmond barely noticed the sterile white walls blurring by as he hurried down the corridor. He was moving so fast he almost collided with a doctor stepping out of a nearby room.

“Mr. Vaughn,” the doctor said with a polite nod. The Vaughn family was well known here—major investors and longtime supporters of the hospital. But Desmond didn’t even hear him. He kept walking, his mind fixed on one thing.

Room 517.

His heart pounded hard against his ribs as he rounded the final corner and stopped short.

There it was.

He stood outside the door, breathing uneven, staring at the simple number on the wall. For the first time since Genevieve had left, the tight knot of uncertainty in his chest started to loosen. She was here. Close enough that he could finally see her. Whatever pain she’d been through, he needed to lay eyes on her himself.

He reached for the door handle.

Before he could grab it, the door swung open.

Alain stepped out and nearly walked right into him.

Both men froze.

The silence between them was thick and heavy, loaded with years of buried tension and fresh heartbreak. Desmond had never really worried about Alain before. He’d known the man was close to Genevieve—a trusted friend always somewhere in the background. But seeing him here now, standing guard like he belonged at her side, stirred something sharp and ugly in Desmond’s gut. Jealousy.

Alain’s face hardened almost instantly. The brief flash of relief on Desmond’s face disappeared, replaced by cautious determination.

Desmond spoke first, his voice rough from too many sleepless nights and too much whiskey. “Where is she?”

Alain didn’t answer right away. He looked Desmond over—wrinkled shirt, dark circles under his eyes, stubble covering his jaw. It was obvious the man hadn’t been taking care of himself. Still, Alain stood firm, ready to protect Genevieve no matter what.

“She’s resting,” he said quietly, his tone calm but unyielding.

Desmond nodded once and tried to step past him. “I need to see her.”

Alain shifted sideways without raising his voice or making a scene, completely blocking the doorway. “No.”

Desmond frowned. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean exactly what I said.” Alain folded his arms, his posture relaxed but immovable. “The doctor made it clear. Genevieve needs complete rest. No emotional stress. No unnecessary visitors.”

A bitter laugh slipped out of Desmond. “Visitors?” He shook his head in disbelief. “I’m not a damn visitor. I’m her husband.”

For the first time, real emotion flickered across Alain’s face. “No,” he said softly, not hiding the care in his voice. “You’re the man who broke her.”

The words hit Desmond like a punch to the chest. He stood there, unable to speak for a moment. Guilt wrapped tight around his heart, making it hard to breathe. But underneath that guilt was something stronger—a desperate need to reach the woman he’d lost.

“I know what I did,” Desmond said, his voice low and stripped of pride. “I know I hurt her. I know I don’t deserve her forgiveness. But you don’t get to decide whether I see my wife.”

Alain’s expression stayed hard. “You should’ve thought about that before you stood on stage and introduced another woman as your future.”

Desmond closed his eyes for a second. Every word stung because it was true. When he looked back at Alain, the fight had drained from his face, leaving only exhaustion.

“I’ve replayed that night a thousand times,” he said, his voice cracking. “If I could take it back, I would.”

“You can’t,” Alain replied simply.

A couple of nurses walking by slowed down, picking up on the tension, before quickly moving on.

Alain took a slow breath. “For the first time in days, she’s finally asleep,” he said, his voice softening even as the protectiveness remained. “She finally stopped crying.”

Those words cut deep. *She cried because of me.* Desmond dropped his gaze to the polished floor, shame twisting inside him.

When he looked up again, his eyes were glassy. He knew he’d messed up badly, but he wasn’t about to let Alain stop him. “I need five minutes,” he said, stepping forward. “Just five minutes with my wife.”

Alain didn’t move. “I care too much about Genevieve to let you in there right now. It’ll only make things worse for her.”

Desmond’s head jerked back. “What the fuck do you mean *you care* about her?” he snapped, jealousy and anger flaring hot. “Who the hell do you think you are? She’s *my* wife.”

“I care enough to put her health first,” Alain shot back, not hiding how deeply he felt for her. “Something you failed to do.”

Desmond’s patience finally broke. “This isn’t your decision!” His voice echoed down the hallway. “It’s between me and my wife!”

“And right now,” Alain replied sharply, “your wife is lying in that bed because of what *you* put her through.”

The hallway went quiet.

Desmond glanced at the closed door, then stepped forward again.

Alain grabbed his arm. “Don’t.”

Desmond yanked free, harder than he meant to. “I have every right to see her.”

“You lost that right the moment you stopped protecting her.”

Ignoring him, Desmond pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Soft morning light filled the room. Genevieve lay against the white pillows, looking small and fragile. Her face was pale, an IV line tucked under the blanket on her arm, and the heart monitor beeped steadily beside her. She looked nothing like the strong woman who had walked away from him just days ago.

The sight hit him hard, knocking the air out of his lungs. He’d pictured this moment so many times, but nothing prepared him for seeing her like this.

Alain followed him in, voice low and urgent. “Desmond—”

As if their voices had reached her through the fog of sleep, Genevieve stirred. Her fingers twitched against the blanket. A small frown creased her brow. Slowly, her eyelids fluttered open.

The first person she saw standing at the foot of her bed was Desmond.