Arlo Present
Arlo
Present
I’ve done a lot of reckless things in my life, but buying a fucking hospital in London might top the list.
My father’s going to lose his mind when he finds out.
The deal alone will set off every financial alarm the company has, but I didn’t have a choice.
Not when Ophelia flatlined.
For the second time.
In the damn helicopter from Elaris Isle to London Medical Centre.
When we landed, they took her straight into surgery. I didn’t know what they were operating on, no one would tell me a damn thing.
And when it was over, they moved her to intensive care and informed me I wouldn’t be allowed to see her, because I wasn’t family.
Fuck that.
I had two options, find someone to marry us on the spot, unconscious or not, or buy the damn hospital and make my own rules.
So I called my lawyer. Then my banker. Then two of my most ruthless contacts. Within two hours, the paperwork was moving.
Within four, the deal was done. I bought the hospital, paid triple what it was worth, and didn’t give a single damn.
All I wanted was to walk through those doors without anyone stopping me.
I think I’m losing it.
And even after buying an entire hospital, I’m still not listed as her next of kin. Something I’ll need to fix as soon as she wakes up, because there isn’t a soul alive who loves her more than I do. Who’d die faster for her than I would. And they think they can tell me I’m not family?
Another reason to put a ring on my girl as soon as possible. Apparently, the world only respects love when it’s written on paper.
But right now, all that matters is that I finally made it to her.
I’m sitting beside her hospital bed, wrapped in a sterile gown, mask, and cap. The only sound in the room is the steady hum of machines.
She’s so still.
There are tubes in her arms, wires across her chest, oxygen feeding into her lungs. Her skin is pale, her lips drained of colour.
She looks small, too fucking small, for this bed, for this room, for this world.
And I can’t breathe.
Every time the monitor beeps, my chest tightens until it aches. Every bruise on her skin, every mark, I see it and I know it’s because of me.
My hands curl into fists, and I fight the urge to put them through the nearest wall.
This is my fault.
But even through the guilt, the chaos tearing through my chest, I know one thing with absolute certainty, I’m not leaving her.
Not ever again.
Whether she wants me here or not, I’ll stay until she opens her eyes. And when she does, I’ll get on my knees and beg.
Her family’s probably been notified by now. They’ll come—her father, her sister, her friends.
And when he walks through that door and sees me here, he’ll lose his mind. He’ll put it together instantly, see exactly how far gone I am over his daughter. The daughter he arranged to sell into marriage to a man older than himself.
Over my dead body.
Too bad for him, I’m done hiding. Done pretending she’s not mine.
I look at her, my beautiful, broken girl, covered in wires, and my voice drops to a whisper. “Don’t worry about anything. Just heal. Come back to me. I’ll be here. I’m not leaving you.”
I reach for her hand, careful not to disturb the IV lines, and hold it against my chest.
“It’s time everyone learns,” I breathe, “that Ophelia Bellanti is fucking mine.”