The heart broken doctor

The accident

The black Maybach screeched to a halt, its tires skidding against the pavement. People on the sidewalk froze, their eyes drawn to the sudden scene. The driver, wide-eyed with panic, bolted out of the car and hurried to where a figure lay sprawled across the road. It was a young woman, dressed in nothing but a thin hospital gown, her fragile body lifeless on the asphalt.

The driver’s hands trembled as he knelt down, but before he could touch her, the rear door of the sleek car opened slowly, ominously. A polished shoe hit the ground, followed by the rest of the man—tall, imposing, and composed. His crisp suit pants barely creased as he stepped out, exuding a controlled power. The crowd couldn't decide where to look—at the broken woman bleeding on the ground or at the man whose presence seemed to command the very air around him.

The man’s sharp gaze scanned the scene. His eyes narrowed slightly as they landed on the woman’s limp form. He rolled up his shirt sleeves with methodical precision, each motion deliberate, his face void of emotion. With long strides, he closed the distance between him and the woman, his expensive shoes clicking against the hard ground, each step sending a shiver through the small crowd gathering at the hospital’s entrance.

He knelt beside her, not with the clumsy urgency of the driver, but with a calculated coolness. His hands, strong and steady, slid beneath her fragile body, and he lifted her effortlessly. The sight of blood smeared across her face didn’t faze him; instead, it sparked a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. His jaw clenched subtly as he studied her face for a moment, the woman’s weight seemingly insignificant in his arms.

The onlookers whispered among themselves, unsure whether to approach or remain silent. Phones appeared, cameras flashing, but the man ignored them all, his focus solely on the unconscious woman in his arms. She was feather-light, her head slumping against his chest, her hospital gown fluttering in the breeze like a ghostly shadow.

Without a word, he turned and strode toward the hospital’s entrance, the crowd parting as if pulled by an invisible force. The automatic doors slid open with a soft hiss as he carried her inside, nurses and doctors already rushing toward them, their faces a mix of confusion and urgency. But the man’s stride never faltered.

The fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow on the pair as he entered, his footsteps echoing through the sterile hallway. Staff members exchanged glances, eyes widening as they recognized him, but no one dared to speak. The woman, unconscious and bleeding, rested against him as if she'd always belonged there.

He spoke, his voice low but commanding, “Find me a doctor. Now.”

The hospital staff snapped into action, scrambling to obey. The air around him was electric, charged with the tension of the moment, but the man remained a statue of calm amidst the chaos, his eyes never leaving the woman’s pale face.

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Inside the sterile hospital room, the beeping of machines was a faint hum in the background. Amara's eyelids fluttered open, heavy and strained. Every inch of her body screamed in agony, a sharp groan slipping past her lips. Her vision was blurred at first, the world around her a dizzying haze, but soon it sharpened, revealing a figure standing near the foot of her bed.

A man. Tall, broad-shouldered, and immaculate—except for the blood. His white shirt, once pristine, was smeared with crimson stains, her blood. Amara’s breath caught in her throat. Fear surged through her veins as her mind scrambled to piece together the fragments of memory. She remembered the car. The sickening impact. The darkness.

His gaze was intense, piercing through her, as if he could read her every thought. His blue eyes were cold, calculating. He took a slow step forward, leaning in closer, his expression unreadable. "Did you wish to commit suicide?" His voice was deep, almost mocking, dripping with an eerie calm that made her stomach churn.

Amara blinked, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. She tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Her head throbbed, wrapped in bandages, and she could feel the stiff, heavy plaster on her arm and leg, binding her broken bones. Her face felt tight, swollen from bruises that had turned her skin a sickly purple. She knew she looked terrible, like something out of a nightmare. A zombie.

She swallowed hard, her throat dry, trying to make sense of the situation. Why was he here? Who was he?

Her eyes drifted up slowly, tracing the lines of his chiseled jaw, the faint stubble that added to his dangerous allure. His blond hair was slicked back with an effortless grace. And then, there was the glint of a diamond earring in his right ear—a small but striking detail that somehow made him even more surreal, more unattainable.

For a moment, Amara couldn’t focus on anything but the sheer beauty of him. Breathtaking. It was the kind of beauty that didn't belong in this world, especially not in a place like this. She stared, dazed, her mind spinning from the pain and the confusion. And just like that, as if the weight of the world became too much to bear, her eyelids fluttered shut again, pulling her back into the comforting blackness of unconsciousness.