Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lucas
My grandfather's call came at three in the morning.
The shrill ringtone cut through the dead silence of the hospital room like a blade. I jerked awake and hit the mute button, then glanced at Ella curled up on the sofa bed.
After she'd left the operating room, the first thing I'd done was have the staff move that sofa bed right up against mine. Now her slender, ice-cold hand was locked tight around mine. Even in sleep, she gripped it hard, as if afraid I'd vanish the second she let go.
I looked at the missed call from Grandfather on the screen and quickly called him back.
"Grandfather? Why are you still up?"
"You idiot," his voice crackled through the line. "I took over that mess at the company so you could win your wife back, not so you could get into street brawls!"
"I'm fine. I've trained with world champion fighters since I was a kid. If I couldn't handle a few street thugs, all that money would've been wasted." I kept my voice low, not wanting to wake Ella.
"But I heard you got cut."
A rare note of concern had crept into Grandfather's voice.
"If I didn't look pathetic enough, how would I get Ella to stay?" I tried to sound casual.
In the dim light from the window, I studied her sleeping face. Her eyes were swollen, dried tears still clinging to her lashes.
Grandfather went silent for a long moment before letting out a low sigh. "Ella must have been terrified."
Terrified didn't begin to cover it.
I thought back to the ambulance ride. She'd cried the entire way, hot tears splashing onto the back of my hand, burning worse than the knife wound.
Her hands had pressed down on my wound, blood covering them completely, while she'd kept whispering "you can't die," "this is all my fault, Lucas, all my fault"—things I never thought I'd hear her say.
But I didn't know if those words were real. Or rather, if they'd still count come morning.
"Listen," Grandfather's voice turned serious.
"You'd better never let Ella find out you staged this whole thing, or she'll never forgive you.
Not in this lifetime. I can hold down the company for three more months at most. Either win her back or get your ass back to Manhattan and sign those divorce papers.
The Rockefeller family doesn't keep deadweight. "
The line went dead.
I set down the phone and brushed Ella's blonde hair back from her face, revealing the gauze wrapped around her neck, pink blood seeping through.
I remembered her in that alley. She'd pressed that broken beer bottle against her own throat, thin streams of blood running down her neck. In that instant, every drop of blood in my body had surged, threatening to burst through my chest. I'd almost lost her.
Ella stirred and slowly opened her eyes.
I realized I'd been stroking her face too hard. I pulled my hand back.
She stared at me, confused for a second, then her cheeks flushed pink.
"Why aren't you sleeping?" Her voice was hoarse with lingering drowsiness. "Does it hurt too much? Should I call the nurse?"
"No need. I just wanted to look at you." I met her eyes, keeping my tone steady.
She sat up abruptly, wiping at her face. "Liar. The doctor said the cut on your arm took twelve stitches. Once the anesthesia wears off, there's no way it doesn't hurt."
"Really," I leaned in close, my breath grazing her ear with a kind of reckless relief. "Everything still works just fine. You can test it if you don't believe me."
Ella's ears turned crimson. She shoved me away and scrambled to her feet.
"You asshole," she muttered, but the ice was gone from her voice.
I laughed. It might have been the first real laugh I'd had in two months.
Over the next two days, the Rochester Police Department worked itself into a frenzy.
Within forty-eight hours, they'd rounded up every last one of those thugs, finding stolen goods at their hideout along with belongings from several missing women.
The men confessed to over a dozen robberies and three sexual assaults.
Meanwhile, under my pressure, massive police resources swept through every block around the hospital. Abandoned factories, dark alleys, underground gambling dens—the scum lurking in the shadows, pimps and dealers, were crushed like insects and cleared out wholesale.
"You went overboard," my head of security said over the phone. "You've got the entire Rochester police force in motion. Even the mayor's office is calling, asking what's going on."
"I don't care," I said. "I want that area clean as Eden."
Since I couldn't get Ella back to Manhattan anytime soon, I had to make damn sure she was safe here. I wanted her to walk the streets without being followed. Without being watched. I didn't want her hurt again.
So in exchange for these stolen moments, I'd employed a few insignificant tactics.
I'd thrown my best private medical team at Maya's case, which made my own "care resources" look strangely sparse. Ella had her doubts, but my line about "limited hospital resources, Maya needs the specialists more" convinced her completely.
Which meant she had to focus most of her energy on me.
Every morning she showed up at eight sharp with oatmeal she'd made herself, loaded with bizarre ingredients from some recipe book—minced ginger, cinnamon, honey, ground flaxseed. She said it all helped with wound healing.
She'd press the back of her hand to my forehead to check my temperature, carefully tuck in the blanket corners, and meticulously inspect the medications on my bedside table.
Once, she caught the nurse bringing the wrong antibiotic dosage and immediately tracked down the duty nurse to demand a replacement.
I just watched her bustle around for me. That focused expression on her face was meant only for me. The old Ella seemed to have come back.
To make this almost indulgent attention last, I started faking symptoms.
Ella fed me every meal, spoon by spoon. In the afternoon, when the light was best, she'd wheel me outside. We'd sit in the sun together like we were on vacation.
Originally, the day before she'd handed me those divorce papers, I'd planned to take her on a trip abroad. But now I understood—real travel wasn't about the destination. It was about who was beside you. As long as you were with the person you loved, every day felt like a holiday.
"Lucas," she said one morning, watching me sprawled in bed, suspicion creeping into her voice. "Yesterday, you said your right hand couldn't grip anything. How come today it's your left?"
"Dizzy," I said, eyes closed. "Blood loss probably scrambled my memory."
"The doctor said your blood work came back normal."
"Maybe it's a concussion."
"You never hit your head."
We stared at each other for several seconds. The sternness in her eyes gradually crumbled, the corner of her mouth twitching.
She was trying not to laugh.
"You're faking," she said with certainty.
"No."
"You're absolutely faking."
"I swear."
I held her gaze. She stared right back. Finally, we both burst out laughing. I reached out and pulled her close, pressing a light kiss to her forehead. No desire in it—just pure, gentle devotion. This time, Ella didn't resist.
But the warmth didn't last long. I started noticing things about Ella that weren't right.
Whenever she fell asleep or when her back was turned, a shadow of melancholy would settle over her face. Her eyes would go vacant, staring at nothing. But the moment I said her name, she'd spin around with a bright smile, asking cheerfully what I needed.
She was clearly hiding something from me.
Not just her expressions—her body was changing too. Several times when I greedily hooked my arm around her waist and pulled her close, I noticed it felt fuller than I remembered, softer to the touch.
At first, I thought she'd just gained weight. Until I realized she barely ate anything—the meals they brought, she'd claim she wasn't hungry or force down two bites before looking nauseated.
My unease grew. I searched online and found that this could be a sign of extreme stress. Ella had been under such intense pressure and anxiety that her cortisol levels stayed elevated, causing weight gain. Classic psychological stress response.
I understood then. I'd hurt Ella again.
I'd staged that injury, made the wound look worse than it was, and trapped her in panic and guilt.
Then I'd hoarded her company for myself, stealing time she should have spent with Maya.
While Maya's condition kept deteriorating, I'd used this almost self-destructive tug-of-war to push Ella to the breaking point.
This was all my fault.
Just as I was about to end this charade, another turning point arrived.
Because of my financing plan, the hospital's resources had improved dramatically. The two patients ahead of Maya both successfully received kidney transplants. Maya moved up to first in line and got her surgery.
The day of the operation, I sat with Ella outside the OR for eight solid hours.
She perched on those hard plastic chairs in the corridor, spine rigid as a wire pulled taut. She never took her eyes off those closed doors, as if watching a portal to another world.
I brought her hot coffee and sandwiches. They went cold untouched. I suggested she rest in the room—I'd get her immediately if anything happened. She just shook her head, saying over and over that she wasn't going anywhere.
Finally, I gave up and said her name softly.
"Ella."
"I said I'm not going anywhere! What if something happens? What if she wants to tell me one last thing and I'm not there—"
She stopped abruptly, as if frightened by her own unlucky assumption. That ramrod spine collapsed. She slowly hunched over, covered her face with both hands, shoulders shaking violently.
I knew she was crying, though she made no sound. That silent shattering was more heartbreaking than any wail.