I remember the tile.
Cold against my cheek.
The bathroom light too bright.
The metallic smell in the air.
And my voice.
Soft.
Apologizing.
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
The memory hits fully now.
Complete.
I see him in the doorway.
Barefoot.
Pale.
Terrified.
He didn’t shout.
He didn’t panic.
He knelt.
Lifted me.
Wrapped the towel tighter around my legs.
And said only one thing.
“Stay with me.”
I didn’t.
Not fully.
The next memory is flashing lights.
A stretcher.
A nurse asking when the bleeding started.
And me hesitating.
That hesitation is everything.
---
Back in the present—
Adrian stands in his study, phone pressed to his ear.
His posture is different now.
Not husband.
Strategist.
“I want the triage log,” he says calmly.
Pause.
“And the attending physi
