CHAPTER EIGHT
Henrik
The Perfect Husband
I sat in the ICU room, holding Bryony's hand. Her fingers were cold and limp in mine, and the steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sound besides my own breathing.
She looked so small in that hospital bed. So broken.
The bandages around her head, the tubes and wires connecting her to machines, the bruises covering her face—it was almost too much to look at.
But I couldn't look away.
This was my fault. All of it.
If I'd listened to her, if I'd taken her seriously when she said someone was watching her, if I hadn't been so wrapped up in my affair with Amelia—maybe this wouldn't have happened.
Maybe she'd be home right now, safe and whole, instead of lying here in a coma.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, even though I knew she couldn't hear me. "Bryony, I'm so sorry. You were right. About everything. And I was too stupid and selfish to see it."
The door opened, and a nurse came in to check Bryony's vitals. She gave me a sympathetic smile.
"You should go home and get some rest, Mr. Mikelson. She's stable for now."
"I'm not leaving her," I said firmly.
The nurse nodded and left, and I was alone with Bryony again.
I thought about what the detective had said. Someone had deliberately run her off the road. Someone had tried to kill my wife.
And I had no idea who or why.
I pulled out her phone and stared at it, then searched Bryony’s contacts there was a contact that I'd seen before—Luca Carmine.
She'd mentioned it once, maybe in her sleep or in passing.
I'd asked her about it, and she'd shut down completely, refused to talk about it.
When the detectives asked me if I knew anything about her past, I'd mentioned the name because it was literally the only thing I had.
But I didn't know who he was. I didn't know if he was a friend, a relative, or what. Bryony had never explained.
Should I call him? Did he need to know she was hurt?
I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the contact. Bryony had been so adamant about keeping her past private, about not wanting to talk about her life before me. I'd respected that—or at least, I'd told myself I was respecting it. The truth was, I'd never pushed hard enough to find out.
I'd married a woman and never asked the basic questions. Never asked where she was from, who her family was, what she was running from.
And now someone had tried to kill her, and I was sitting here realizing I didn't know enough about her life to even guess who might want to hurt her.
I looked at her pale face, at the machines keeping her alive.
Maybe this Luca person would know. Maybe he was someone who could help.
Or maybe I was about to make a terrible mistake.
I pressed dial before I could talk myself out of it.
"Luca Carmine?"
"Who the fuck is asking?"
"My name is Henrik Mikelson. I'm married to Bryony Mikelson– well Carmine."
"Where is she?" The voice was suddenly sharp, dangerous.
"She's in the hospital. Someone ran her off the road. She's in critical condition."
There was a long silence. When the voice spoke again, it was cold and deadly. "What hospital?"
"Crescent Falls Medical Center. But—"
"I'll be there in two hours."
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone, a sense of dread settling in my stomach. I'd just called someone I knew nothing about. Someone from Bryony's past that she'd clearly wanted to keep hidden.
What if I'd just made things worse?
But Bryony needed protection. And I couldn't provide it. So maybe this Luca person could.
I looked at her again, at her pale, bruised face.
"Luca’s coming," I said softly, making an assumption I wasn't even sure about. "I know you didn't want me to call him, but I had to. Someone tried to kill you, Bryony. And I can't protect you. But maybe he can."
I squeezed her hand gently, wishing more than anything that she'd squeeze back.
But there was nothing. Just the steady beep of the heart monitor and the sound of my own guilt.
Two hours later, the ICU doors burst open, and a man strode in like he owned the place. He was tall, dark-haired, and moved with the kind of confidence that came from knowing you were the most dangerous person in any room.
Luca Carmine.
Behind him was another man—slightly shorter, but just as intimidating. Dark eyes, sharp features, and an expression that could cut glass.
They found Bryony's room immediately, and Luca stopped in the doorway, his face going pale.
"Ginny," he breathed.
Ginny? I'd never heard anyone call her that.
He moved to her bedside, his hand hovering over hers like he was afraid to touch her. "What the fuck happened?"
"Someone ran her off the road," I said. "The police think it was deliberate."
Luca's jaw clenched. "Who?"
"We don't know yet. The detectives are investigating."
The other man spoke for the first time. "Where were you when this happened?" His voice was low and dangerous.
"I was—" I hesitated. "I was with someone else."
Luca's head snapped toward me. "Someone else?"
"I was having an affair. I think she found out. She left, and then—this happened."
The temperature in the room dropped about twenty degrees.
"You were fucking around on my sister?" Luca's voice was deadly quiet.
"It was a mistake. I know that now—"
"A mistake?" The other man stepped forward. "She's lying here in a coma because you couldn't keep your dick in your pants, and you call it a mistake?"
"Deangelo," Luca said sharply. "Not here."
Deangelo. I remembered that name. Bryony called that name out often while she slept.
He'd been someone important to her. Someone she'd left behind.
Deangelo stared at Bryony, his expression raw with emotion. "She should never have married you. She should have stayed with us, where she was safe."
"She wanted to leave," I said defensively. "She wanted a normal life."
"And look how that turned out," Deangelo said bitterly.
Luca held up a hand. "Enough. We're not here to fight. We're here to find out who did this and make them pay."
He turned to me. "Tell me everything. Every detail about what happened, who she was afraid of, anything that might help us find the bastard who hurt her."
I told them everything I knew—about Bryony's fears, the feeling of being watched, the dark SUV that had run her off the road. I told them about the detectives' investigation, about the witness who'd seen it happen.
Luca listened intently, his expression growing darker with every word.
"We'll handle this," he said finally. "You just stay here and play the devoted husband, like you have been. We'll find out who did this."
"The police—"
"Fuck the police," Deangelo said flatly. "They'll take weeks to build a case. We'll have answers in days."
I didn't doubt it. These men looked dangerous, like they operated in a world where justice was swift and brutal.
And part of me—the part that was drowning in guilt and rage—was glad for it.
Luca leaned down and pressed a kiss to Bryony's forehead. "I'm here, Ginny. And I'm going to find whoever did this. I promise."
Then he straightened and looked at me. "If she dies because you were too busy fucking your mistress to protect her, you're a dead man. Understand?"
I nodded, my throat tight.
The other guy, Deangelo stepped forward took her hand and whispered something in her ear before brushing a soft kiss on her cheek. Then glared at me before turning.
They left, and I was alone with Bryony again.
I'd thought calling her brother would help. But now I realized I'd just painted a target on my own back.
If Bryony died, Luca Carmine would kill me.
And honestly? I'd probably deserve it.