CHAPTER 1
Rafael had spent his entire life believing men like him did not kneel. Men like him made kingdoms bow. They gave orders.
Started wars.
Ended bloodlines.
But begged? Never.
And yet here he was, on his knees.
Broken.
Helpless.
Human.
The polished marble floor of the private hospital felt like ice beneath him, but he barely noticed. His world had shrunk to the fragile woman lying motionless on the bed before him.
To her.
His large hands swallowed hers completely, careful—so painfully careful—not to disturb the white bandages wrapped around her bruised skin. Skin that once felt like silk beneath his touch now looked heartbreakingly fragile, as if one wrong breath could shatter her.
His fingers trembled.
His fingers.
Rafael De Luca never knew grief until he had to saw his wife on hospital bed.
The pain, the anguish and the guilt he thought he’d never feel, was so real it wrapped around his throat and choked him.
He couldn’t breathe, even if he wanted to.
It was as if he had forgotten the simple notion of even breathing was unknown to him.
Every breath felt like he was breathing in shards of glass lodged into his throat even since he found her laying on the side of the road, bloodied and almost dead.
Dead.
His head lowered until his forehead rested against her knuckles, his dark hair falling over hollow, sleepless eyes as broken prayers escaped lips once feared by entire cities.
“Please…”
His voice cracked.
So quietly.
So pathetically.
“Please, God…”
His grip tightened.
“Take everything.” A shaky breath. “My empire…” Another. “My name…” His shoulders trembled. “My life…” And then his voice dropped into something so raw, so torn, that even the nurses standing nearby had to look away. “…but not her.”
Only the steady beep… beep… beep… of the machines mocked his desperation.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days.
Three hundred and thirty-six hours.
And not once, not once, had those beautiful eyes opened.
Rafael had stopped sleeping after the third day.
Stopped eating after the fifth.
Stopped pretending he could survive without her after the seventh. Because every time he closed his eyes, he heard her screams.
He still heard them. They clawed through his skull like ghosts refusing to die.
The terror in her eyes.
The sound of her crying his name.
The way her trembling fingers had reached for him…before going limp.
Even unconscious, she haunted him. And maybe… maybe that was his punishment. Because men like Rafael were never meant to touch something as pure as her.
Never meant to love.
Never meant to deserve.
And yet his traitorous heart beat only for her now as though it had finally found its owner.
He lifted his head slowly, bloodshot eyes tracing every bruise still visible beneath the soft hospital light.
And despite everything. She was still beautiful.
Because even after hell tried to devour her, she survived.
A miracle.
His miracle.
Rafael’s jaw clenched as memory wrapped its filthy hands around his throat. He never wanted to remember that night.
Never.
But some horrors branded themselves into the soul.
He could still see her, collapsed in the darkness. Barely breathing. Soaked in blood that wasn’t all hers. Her dress was torn. Hanging from her body like the last remains of stolen dignity.
Her skin was painted in bruises, cuts, burns…evidence of monsters who had touched what should’ve never been touched.
Rafael’s stomach twisted violently.
His grip on her hands tightened.
He hated them.
But he hated himself more.
Because the signs had been there.
And he, the man who noticed every trembling breath… every racing heartbeat… every blush… had missed the wounds hidden beneath the fabric. Missed the silent cries.
Missed her.
A broken laugh escaped him. He brought her bandaged hand to his lips, pressing a trembling kiss against her knuckles.
He never tried to hear the meaning behind her pleas. He hated how he always slept with her on the same bed but never saw the scars, or simply never cared. He saw her every day but never saw her at all.
He regretted that. Every fucking second and every single time he brushed her words.
‘I…I need to talk to you.’
Rafael closed his eyes as tears rushed down his cheeks. Only if he listened to her that day. He hated himself for leaving her all alone that night, completely ignoring her pleas as she ran behind him barefoot. Five minutes, four missed calls, three words, two seconds and one last word. ‘Sorry.’
The doctors were all in a rush and panic as soon as he brought her to the hospital.
They rushed her to the emergency room, saying something like it would be hard to save the girl.
She had lost too much blood and she didn't seem in the best condition either.
Rafael didn't know what he was expecting but he hoped she would make it alive.
It was a gut feeling. An instinct that was telling him that he needed to save her at any cost.
****
Rafael waited for another week. It has been three weeks now since he found Amara and admitted her to the hospital.
But still no sign of her waking up. The doctors didn’t say much about her condition.
They were always walking on eggshells around him, afraid that a single wrong move of them might cost them their lives.
They were not fools to not realize by now what type of person he was within this timeline of three weeks.
Something about Amara didn't let him leave her alone.
He wanted to be around her all the time.
Stay close to her. Protect her. He had no idea how he grew to be so fond and protective of someone so fast and easily, even though she was just his arranged wife whom he hadn't even talked to more than once.
But he didn't feel disturbed by this feeling.
He was indeed growing immensely protective of her that seemed who seemed to have hundreds of secrets within her. Maybe it was the guilt and his male ego, that someone else, someone who was not him, touched her. Raped her.
His jaw clenched but all his anger vaporized in true anxiousness when he felt her finger moving.
For a moment he was confused and though he must have imagined it, when her fingers moved again, Rafael immediately sat up straight and called the doctors.
Both he and the doctor rushed inside again.
What greeted them inside left them both surprised and alert.
There she was. Eyes open and curiously looking around the room, though with some difficulty.
Amara noticed Rafael and stared at him, blinking rapidly, not yet getting used to the bright light all around.
Rafael waited.
Waited for recognition.
Waited for warmth.
Waited for the soft curve of her lips, that same smile that used to greet him every evening when he returned home, tired, blood on his hands, sin on his shoulders, yet somehow feeling human the moment she looked at him.
He waited for his wife.
But the woman lying in that hospital bed… looked at him like he was a stranger.
And that, that terrified him more than death ever could.
Her eyes were open.
But they weren’t hers.
Gone was the warmth that once lived in those honey-brown depths. Gone was the softness, the familiarity, the quiet love that used to undo him with a single glance.
In its place, there was darkness. Confusion.
An emptiness so hollow it felt like staring into the ruins of a home that had already burned to ash.
Rafael forgot how to breathe. Around him, the room erupted into movement. Doctors speaking over one another. Monitors beeping faster. Nurses rushing toward the bed, checking her pupils, her pulse, her oxygen levels.
But Rafael heard none of it. Because all he could see was her. Or perhaps… what was left of her.
His wife.
The woman he should had crossed oceans for.
Should had killed for.
And now… she looked at him like she had never seen him before. The realization hit him so hard his knees nearly gave out. No. No—
This wasn’t happening.
His heartbeat thundered violently against his ribs as he forced his frozen body to move.
One step.
Then another.
Until he stood beside her bed.
Close enough to touch.
Close enough to shatter.
His eyes searched every inch of her face, desperate—almost frantic—for some sign.
Anything.
A twitch.
A smile.
Recognition.
But instead, he saw her flinch. So slight most people wouldn’t notice. Rafael did. And it nearly killed him.
A painful lump rose in his throat as he gently slid one arm behind her shoulders, helping her sit up slowly. Her muscles were weak after three weeks of complete bed rest; her body trembled with the effort.
“Easy…” His voice came out rougher than intended. “Don’t rush.”
He adjusted the pillows behind her carefully, his touch feather-light, as though he feared she might disappear if he held on too tightly. When she was finally settled, he crouched beside the bed so their eyes were level.
His hands clenched at his sides. “How are you feeling?”
Beneath his voice was damned guilt.
Amara didn’t answer. She just looked at him. Studying him with a strange, unsettling intensity, as though trying to solve a puzzle she couldn’t remember starting. Her brows pulled together slightly. Her gaze moved across his face.
His eyes.
His scar.
His jaw.
His hands.
Like she was searching for something.
A memory.
A feeling.
A reason.
And finding…
Nothing.
When she finally spoke, her voice came out dry and barely above a whisper. “…Do I know you?”
One of the nurses stopped moving. The doctor glanced sharply toward Rafael. And Rafael, felt something inside him snap. The doctor stepped forward gently.
“Mrs. De Luca, my name is Dr. Mehta.” He kept his tone calm, measured. “You’ve been unconscious for three weeks after a severe traumatic injury. Sometimes after prolonged unconsciousness—especially when the brain has experienced swelling or trauma—memory can be affected.”