Chapter 21 #3
The doctor hesitated, then said the one thing that cleaved the floor from my feet. “She’s... in a coma, Mr. Volkov. Critical condition. We’re stabilizing her now.”
The world narrowed until it was just that syllable—coma—echoing in a loop.
I shoved past him, hands clenching into fists so tight my knuckles showed white. “You will do everything,” I snapped. “Wake her. If she doesn’t—” My voice broke off on a threat I didn’t mean to waste on the air.
The doctor flinched but did not argue.
He motioned nurses into motion, their efficiency a small mercy.
I punched the wall on the way out.
The plaster cracked under the force; my injured hand flared with pain, but it was a distant, useful agony.
“Do everything to wake her,” I said through my teeth to the staff huddled near the nurses’ station. “If she dies here, this hospital burns.”
Their murmured reassurances followed me, but I didn’t stay to hear them.
Giovanni appeared in the corridor like a ghost I’d summoned.
His face was pale, streaked with exhaustion.
“I hadn’t meant to go that far,” I said before he could speak. The confession slipped out raw. “I meant to punish. To bend her. To prove ownership.” My throat tightened. “Not this. Not near death.”
“Is she...?” he asked quietly, fear flickering across his face.
“In a coma,” I said, the words tasting like ash.
He said nothing, only guided me down the hall like a handler leading a wounded animal.
We stopped at the VIP lounge—sterile, quiet, too bright for grief.
I dropped into the chair, my hands trembling.
The craving for a cigarette tore through me, sharp and desperate. One drag, a voice whispered. But if I started now, there’d be no stopping. Penelope’s fragile lungs had been my reason to quit. My restraint was her legacy—one of the few things left of her that wasn’t drenched in blood.
With a muttered curse, I shoved the pack back into the drawer and slammed it shut.
My jaw locked until my teeth ached.
Alcohol wasn’t an option either.
My body rejected it like poison—one sip and my throat could close, my lungs seize. Giovanni was the only one who knew, the only one who’d seen me convulsing on the floor after I’d tried to drown the past.
So I was trapped. No smoke. No drink. No escape.
Just the guilt, steady and consuming.
I crossed to the narrow cot in the corner and collapsed onto it. The springs groaned under my weight.
The room was too quiet to contain the noise in my head—her voice, her cries, the sound of her forehead striking the floor. I’d caused that.
Every thud replayed behind my ribs, matching the rhythm of my pulse, relentless and accusing.
Sleep hovered close but refused to take me. It only stood at the edge of the dark, watching me unravel.
“Boss...” Giovanni’s voice cut through the chaos in my head, careful, hesitant, like he was stepping into a minefield. “News just came in. The Orlovs are demanding you meet with Seraphina within twenty-four hours... to discuss your relationship.”
My eyes lifted, cold, unfocused.
He went on, his throat working as he swallowed. “If you don’t, they’ll pull their support. Their spokesman said you haven’t made any effort to see her since she returned.”
I straightened, the exhaustion bleeding into fury. “Didn’t I tell you to get rid of her?” The words snapped like a whip, the sound harsh in the sterile quiet.
“We tried,” Giovanni said, steady despite the tremor under his voice.
“Her security’s tight — trained teams, political backers.
If we push and she vanishes, they’ll trace it.
That’s a war you don’t want on top of a tribunal.
If Seraphina disappears, they’ll use it to end you.
” He spat the last word like it tasted of ash.
I let the air out slowly, like cooling steel.
Fury had turned into calculation. “I am not meeting that woman,” I said, each word a blade laid down on the table.
Giovanni kept looking at me, careful as a surgeon.
“You don’t have to meet her. Not personally.
I can draft something — a contract that acknowledges her publicly, gives the Orlovs what they want: face, status, concessions.
Call her a mistress in name only. Terms, safe distances, a clause for no public appearances for a year.
They sign it, we keep the peace, and Seraphina stays—harmless and out of the way. ”
He hesitated.
His fingers flexed against the doorframe as if bracing for a blow. “Boss, I know you’re loyal to Penelope. Obsessively so. But Seraphina isn’t just a woman; she’s Orlov’s first daughter. If we mishandle this, they’ll bleed us dry. The wrong move, and even the Council won’t protect you.”
I stared at him, the silence between us thick with unspoken violence and exhaustion.
Giovanni didn’t look up. “Let me handle it,” he murmured. “You have bigger battles to fight—starting with keeping her alive.”
He was gone before I could form an answer, the click of the door like a verdict.
Rage rose, hot and animal.
If the Orlovs pulled out, everything I’d built—my men, my alliances, the delicate web of fear and fortune—would collapse like wet paper.
My brothers would circle, scenting weakness, ready to carve out my empire piece by piece. And Penelope... she’d be exposed, soft and bleeding, a prize for men who knew no mercy.
I almost laughed at the irony—destroying her, only to lose my mind over the thought of losing her for good. Obsession never lied. It was brutal, raw, honest in its cruelty.
I stood.
Enough. I needed to see her.
The corridor to her ward was sterile, too bright, too calm. The kind of calm that mocked what was rotting inside me.
Two nurses stood by the entrance, clipboard and IV bags in hand. They were competent—too competent—and I didn’t trust competence. Not when it came to Penelope.
“Step aside,” I said, my voice a warning rather than a request.
“Sir—” one began, but the look I gave her cut through the rest.
“Do you understand me?” I said, quieter now, more dangerous. “Step aside. Or I swear you’ll regret it.”
They froze, eyes wide, then shifted aside, the air between us heavy with fear.
I didn’t need their permission. I needed control.
I pushed through the door.
And there she was.
Penelope.
Pale. Fragile. Her wrists swathed in gauze, her skin clammy with fever, her breath a thin thread barely holding her to this world.
Blood still stained the edge of her hospital gown, evidence of her struggle—her despair. Her hair, once soft and full, clung to her damp forehead; her lips were cracked, trembling with each weak inhale.
My throat tightened. Every bruise, every cut, every mark on her was mine. My doing. My sin.
I moved closer, the steady beeping of her heart monitor the only thing keeping me anchored.
For the first time in years, I didn’t feel like a man of power or a husband or a king. I felt like a murderer waiting for his sentence.
The doctor strode in briskly, as if the nurses had just reported my breach of protocol—walking into a comatose patient’s room without warning—but this was my wife.
His eyes flicked from me to her motionless form, calculating.
“Mr. Volkov, hospital protocol—she needs space. Any sudden—”
“Cut the bullshit,” I snapped, my voice dangerous. “I’m staying with my wife. Tell me—exactly—what she needs to come out of this coma. Don’t leave out a single detail.” My chest tightened, my fingers twitching, because just watching her like this was breaking me.
The doctor swallowed, straightening, meeting my gaze with professional caution.
“Mr. Volkov... she’s lost a significant amount of blood.
Her hemoglobin is dangerously low, and she’s febrile.
We’re monitoring for shock. She’s stabilized for now, but she’s fragile.
Any abrupt movement... any stress... could worsen her condition. ”
I bent over her, ignoring the sterile smell of antiseptic.
My hand hovered, trembling slightly, over hers, afraid to touch too firmly.
“Fragile?” I growled under my breath. “Fragile doesn’t cover it. You realize I could lose her?”
“She’s stable for now,” the doctor said cautiously.
“For now,” I echoed, my voice dropping low and dangerous. “For now doesn’t mean forever. If she dies here—if a single mistake is made—you will answer to me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Volkov.”
My eyes, icy and unyielding, scanned the room, making it clear that I wasn’t bluffing.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, careful not to touch her too roughly.
My chest ached with guilt. “I went too far,” I whispered, barely audible. “I pushed you into the dark... I let my hatred blind me. I—” My voice cracked, and I forced it back into a growl. “I will fix this. I swear to you, Penelope, I will fix this.”
Her hand twitched under the sheet, a small, almost imperceptible motion, and I reached for it instantly.
My fingers brushed hers, and a shiver ran through me.
“Don’t you dare leave me,” I whispered, the words torn between a command and a prayer.
My thumb traced the curve of her knuckles, cold against my burning skin.
She was mine—my obsession, my undoing, my only salvation—and I’d nearly killed the very thing that kept me alive.
Her stillness gutted me.
I exhaled hard, my hands trembling as I watched her the way I always had, even when she never noticed.
I wasn’t a husband anymore; I was the beast that had built her cage and then begged her not to die inside it.
Every faint beep of the monitor, every shallow breath, every twitch beneath her eyelids carved me open a little more.
I couldn’t sit on the bed—I didn’t deserve to. So I slid to the floor, my back against the metal frame, gripping the edge like a penitent clutching a cross.
My voice came out low, raw, almost reverent.
“I’m here,” I murmured, pressing my forehead to the mattress beside her hand. “I won’t lock you away again. Ever. You hear me?” My voice trembled, breaking around the edges. “You’re mine. You stay. You breathe. You live.”