All Chapters of The Day I Stopped Loving Him: Chapter 171 - Chapter 180

Léo's POV The hospital room was quiet. The pain was a dull, constant throb, muted by the medication dripping into his arm through a line that beeped softly whenever the flow shifted. The ceiling was a grid of white tiles. He counted them to stay awake. The counting was a discipline, a way of maintaining focus when the body wanted to surrender. Twelve tiles across. Eighteen tiles long. Two hundred and sixteen tiles separating him from the sky. The numbers were solid. Reliable. They did not shift or collapse under pressure. They were not like the building that had fallen around him. Maya was sitting beside the bed. Her hand was wrapped around his, her grip tight and warm. The chemistry between them was a quiet hum, a current of shared relief and lingering fear. The gold band on her finger pressed against his skin, a reminder of the bond that had held them together through the collapse. He squeezed her hand. The movement sent pain through his arm but the connection was worth it. The t

Léo's POVThe hospital room was a cage of white sheets and beeping monitors. The pain in his pelvis and ribs was a constant, grinding ache. Every breath felt like broken glass shifting inside his chest. Léo stared at the ceiling, mapping the structural load paths of the floor above him to distract his mind from the agony. The third joist from the east wall was sagging. He made a mental note to tell the facilities manager.The door opened. Daniel walked in.Léo's jaw tightened. The physical pain was nothing compared to the surge of hostility that shot through his veins. Daniel wore a suit that cost more than the community center garden. His face held an expression of manufactured concern, the kind he probably practiced in the mirror before client meetings."What do you want?" Léo asked. His voice was a raw rasp, damaged by the dust and the intubation."I came to check on you." Daniel sat in the chair beside the bed without being invited. The casual possession in his posture was a delib

Maya's POVThe hospital corridor stretched before me like a sterile tunnel. The air tasted of antiseptic and recycled oxygen, a sharp chemical burn that scratched the back of my throat with every breath. My footsteps echoed against the linoleum, a dull rhythmic sound that matched the frantic beating of my heart. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a flat pale light that erased the shadows but could not erase the weight of my exhaustion. My ribs ached where the seatbelt had wrenched across my chest during the garage attack. The bruise on my temple throbbed with every pulse of my blood. But the physical pain was a distant echo compared to the crushing anxiety that had taken residence in my chest.I stopped at the door. My hand hovered over the handle. The fear was a solid mass in my throat. I had seen the building fall. I had heard the groan of the steel, the shattering of the concrete, the terrible silence that followed. I had watched them pull him from the rubble, his face

Maya's POVThe loft was quiet when I returned. The Worn collection stood on its forms in the corner, a silent testament to survival. The space smelled of wool and chalk, the familiar scents of my life. The cutting table was clear. The shears were in their place. The order had been restored. But the silence was heavy, a held breath, a room waiting for the other shoe to drop.I locked the door behind me. I turned the deadbolt, then slid the chain. The metal was cold under my fingers, a small solid reassurance. Marcus had upgraded the security system. The cameras were active. The sensors were armed. The loft was a fortress now, a sanctuary wrapped in steel and wire. The thought should have comforted me. Instead, it was a reminder of how much had changed. The loft had once been a place of creation, a space where ideas flowed freely and the only boundaries were the edges of the fabric. Now it was a stronghold.Chloe was asleep in her bed. I stood in the doorway of her room, watching the ri

Léo's POVThe physical therapy room was a torture chamber of rubber bands and parallel bars. The space smelled of antiseptic and sweat, the air thick with the effort of broken bodies trying to rebuild themselves. The walls were lined with mirrors, reflecting Léo's shattered frame back at him from every angle. A cruel design. No architect would have approved it. You did not force a man to watch his own collapse.The therapist, a woman with the patience of a saint and the grip of a vice, was manipulating Léo's leg. Her hands were firm, her movements precise, each push and pull a calculated assault on the damaged tissue. The pain was blinding, a white-hot fire that shot from his pelvis down to his toes. Every fiber of his being screamed for release. The sweat ran down his temples, pooling in the hollow of his throat. His jaw was clenched so tight he thought his teeth might crack."Breathe," the therapist said. Her voice was calm, a steady rhythm in the storm of his agony.Léo gripped the