Chapter 28
Isabel
I pace the quiet hallway, trying to calm down, to be rational—but my heart is thundering and my thoughts are anything but calm.
Nathan can’t call off our wedding.
He won’t.
He can’t possibly believe I would just leave him like this. That I’d run off and let him go through everything alone. What the hell are you thinking, Nathan? What’s your game here?
I press the heel of my palm to my chest, right where it aches. This can’t be fake. It wasn’t fake. What we shared… it was real. It meant something. The way he touched me, the way he whispered my name, the way his eyes searched mine like he was trying to memorize my soul.
So what the hell changed?
“Is everything okay?” Morris brings over some food and chocolate. My stomach knot and I have to hold my breath.
“Yeah, sure.” I lie.
Alice approaches and looks disappointed. She briefly hugs me before eyeing Morris’ tray.
“How’s he?” I ask her.
“He’s more stubborn than you, but you two need to talk. The nurse is giving him some painkillers.”
My vision blurs. I’m not ready to back down and annul our marriage. I hug her tighter and spin around to head back to his room.
He’s asleep, his chest rising and falling steadily, that damn frown still etched into his forehead even in rest. I don’t hesitate—I sit down in the chair by his bedside like I have for days now, curl my knees to my chest, and settle in.
“I’m not leaving,” I whisper into the silence. “No matter how hard you push me away, I’m not going anywhere.”
Days pass.
Even when he pretends I don’t exist, even when he turns his face away when I enter the room, or answers me with grunts and silence and closed-off stares—I’m still here. Because we said for better or worse, and we’re damn well going to honor that, whether he likes it or not.
He refuses to meet my eyes. Ignores my presence. And yet I stay. I will be the one thing he can count on, whether he believes he deserves me or not.
The physiotherapist visits regularly, teaching me how to massage his legs to help stimulate his circulation, how to support him without overstepping, how to coax the strength back into limbs that refuse to cooperate.
The therapist told me he has sensitivity and that’s a good sign. Recovery might be long, but it’s not hopeless.
I knew that already.
But Nate doesn’t. He won’t let himself believe it. He’s buried beneath guilt and frustration, drowning in shame. He thinks he's a burden. And I see it—I see it every time he flinches when I walk in, or when he bites back his anger at his own body.
I see it, and I still love him. Fiercely.
A rustling noise jerks me out of sleep. My neck aches from the terrible angle I’ve been curled up in, but I spring up from the armchair anyway, instantly alert.
“Nate?” I whisper, stepping closer. He’s writhing slightly, teeth clenched.
“My leg… it hurts,” he grits out, trying to sit up but failing.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, pulling the blanket off gently. The muscle is tight—cramped. I settle on the bed beside him and begin to massage his thigh, fingers working in small circles just like the therapist showed me. Slowly, the tension melts beneath my hands.
His breathing slows.
When I dare glance up, his gaze is fixed on me—soft, unsure. He doesn’t speak.
Neither do I.
Because if I do, I’ll fall apart. And I can’t afford that right now.
Not while he still needs me to be strong.
When he’s relaxed, he whispers, “Thank you.”
I just nod, and go back to my chair. I open my laptop and pretend to work, even though the screen is blurry with the tears I won’t let fall.
But I can feel it—his eyes, still on me.
* * *
The first real physiotherapy session is an absolute disaster.
Nathan is in a mood even before they start. His jaw is clenched, his arms crossed tight across his chest like he's bracing for war. When the physiotherapist comes in—cheerful, professional, hopeful—he shuts her down before she even opens her kit.
“I can do it myself,” he growls, swatting her hand away when she tries to guide his leg into position.
“Nathan,” I murmur, trying to soften his tone, “she’s just trying to help—”
“I said I can do it myself,” he snaps, not even sparing me a glance.
The session spirals from there. He doesn’t want help. Doesn’t want guidance. Doesn’t want me there.
And it kills me.
Because I know that fire in him. That refusal to show weakness. But this isn’t strength—it’s fear dressed in pride, and it’s hurting him more than he realizes.
He can move his legs. It's a small, shaky movement—but it’s there. There’s hope. But the moment he tries to put weight on them and wobbles—just once—he gives up. Curses under his breath. Throws the towel onto the floor and growls, “Forget it.”
And that’s what pisses me off most.
The Nathan I know doesn’t quit. He pushes until the world bends in his favor. He fights.
But now? He’s pushing away the very people trying to help.
After a few more sessions like that, he turns sour. Every nurse that enters the room gets a glare. He snaps at the ones who dare remind him to eat or take his meds. His frustration is like a dark cloud, filling the room and suffocating anyone who gets too close.
“I’m not a damn child,” he shouts to a young nurse who gently reminds him to hydrate.
She flinches, mumbles an apology, and rushes out. I follow her and apologize on his behalf, though the weight of it makes my chest ache.
The doctors say his mood swings are normal.
That the night cramps will come and go. I’ve learned how to ease them—massaging his calves and thighs until he stops wincing in pain.
And on those nights, when he’s too tired to fight me, when he lets me help him without a word, I let myself believe there’s still a part of him that doesn’t want me to go.
But during the day? He’s cold. Silent unless he absolutely has to talk to me which rarely happens. I exist in the background of his world now—barely acknowledged, rarely appreciated.
And I’m trying. God, I’m trying.
But I’m tired. Exhausted, actually. I barely sleep. Whatever I manage to eat, I throw up. The fatigue is eating me alive, and the emotional toll is worse than any sleepless night.
I hold onto the tiny victories—the way his balance is slightly better than it was two days ago, the fact that he didn’t yell during today’s session, the fleeting moment when our hands brushed and he didn’t pull away immediately.
It’s those crumbs that keep me going. That whisper that there’s still something left of us worth saving.
Because even if he wants to end it—even if he’s trying to push me out—I deserve the truth.
I deserve to know if what we had was a lie, or if he’s just too scared to believe it was real.
And until I get that truth from his own lips, I won’t give up.
* * *
Today is a strange day, and Nathan’s mood is like a storm cloud ready to burst. The physiotherapy session feels like it’s never going to end, and his incessant complaints, the sarcasm dripping from every word, make something inside me snap.
He’s not just frustrated—he’s cruel. Lashing out like a wounded animal trying to bite the hand that loves him most.
He complains about the heat, the nurse, the exercises, even the floor tiles. Like a child, making excuses to avoid a challenge he's terrified to face.
I step in front of him, ignoring the nurse’s alarmed whisper of “Please, Miss—let the therapist handle it. We’re used to it.” No. Not today.
“Isabel, go away.”
Oh, look—he’s finally talking to me.
“Nope.” My voice is calm, defiant. It slices through the air like steel.
“Go away. I don't want you here. I don't want you in my life.”
His words are a dagger straight to the heart, but I don't flinch.
“Too bad, I'm not moving,” I fire back. “What is it? Are you afraid to discover that somewhere beneath your stone-cold act, there’s still a crumb of love for me?”
I see the fire in his eyes, the way his jaw clenches, the storm building. But he’s so consumed by the anger he doesn’t even notice—he’s taken a step. A solid one.
Then it happens.
“Why don’t you give up on me?” he roars.
“Because I love you!” My voice cracks with the truth I’ve buried under exhaustion and heartbreak. “And if you stopped pushing me away for one goddamn second, maybe you’d see that together, we could survive anything!”
“Isabel, stop it!”
His voice echoes off the walls. People turn, but I don’t care. He’s taken another step toward me. Unsteady. Furious. Alive.
Oh? Seems like I struck a nerve.
“You’re acting like a damn spoiled, selfish kid!” I spit, backing away with purpose. Daring him to follow.
His eyes narrow. “How dare you judge me?”
Another step. Closer.
“If you weren’t so damn stubborn, maybe you’d realize how much I love you. Maybe you’d understand that I don't want a life that doesn’t have you in it. So tell me, Nathan—do you really want me out of your life? Is that what you truly want?”
He stops. Breathing hard. His silence is louder than a scream.
“Yes, Isabel,” he finally says, voice low and hollow. He motions to the nurse. Weakness seeps into his words like ink in water.
But I don’t let her near him. I block her path with a raised hand. My mind races. What will shake him enough to fight again?
Then it sinks in. My heart clenches. I hate that I have to do this. But if there’s a single chance it’ll bring him back to life, I’ll take it.
“Then there’s no point in continuing,” I say, voice trembling. “I’ll love our baby enough for both of us.”
The room stills.
“What?”
I don’t answer. I move to my bag, pulling out my phone with practiced ease while pretending I didn’t just shatter his universe.
From the reflection in the mirror, I see the blood drain from his face.
“Isabel… wait.” His voice is pleading. Desperate. That strong, stubborn man—the one who fought wars and stood tall in storms—now’s trembling for me.
“No, Nate. I’m done.” My voice is quiet. Flat. “I don’t have the strength to keep fighting a battle I’ve already lost.”