CHAPTER 3
1162 Words
The hospital was louder than usual.
Emergency lights flashed down sterile hallways. The trauma floor buzzed with tension—surgeons moving swiftly, nurses whispering, equipment being wheeled with urgency. Every time the elevator doors opened, a fresh wave of commotion surged outward.
Isla had been on edge all morning. Her hands were cold. Her breath felt tight in her chest. She hadn’t slept. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t think. The news was everywhere—Alexander Wolfe, the billionaire tech mogul, still in critical condition after his crash.
The man she’d slept with.
The man whose hands had been all over her just hours before his world shattered.
She’d spent her entire morning praying she wouldn’t be pulled to the ICU. Avoiding eye contact with the charge nurse. Avoiding him.
But fate had other plans.
“Munroe,” came Marla’s voice from behind the desk. “ICU Room 417. You’re assigned to assist the attending until further notice.”
Isla blinked. “ICU?”
Marla nodded, flipping a chart. “VIP patient. Massive trauma case. We need someone steady.”
Isla’s pulse jumped. “What’s the name?”
Marla barely glanced up. “Alexander Wolfe.”
Her stomach dropped.
It took everything in her not to bolt.
She forced herself to nod, hiding the tremble in her hands. “Yes, ma’am.”
Room 417 felt like the edge of the world.
Glass walls. Monitors beeping steadily. A ventilator hissed and exhaled in rhythm, a mechanical breath keeping him tethered to life. IV lines snaked from his arms. Machines whispered in digital tones, monitoring vitals, oxygen levels, organ function.
He was unrecognizable.
Gone was the confident man who had pressed her into hotel sheets and kissed her like he needed to own her. Gone was the devilish spark in those ice-blue eyes.
His face was battered—cuts stitched shut, one cheek swollen and purpled with bruising. His right arm was casted and elevated. His chest, rising and falling under crisp hospital linens, looked fragile. Human.
So breakable.
Isla froze in the doorway.
That’s not him. That can’t be him.
But it was.
Even beneath the swelling and the machines and the layers of damage, she could see the truth. The mouth that had trailed kisses along her collarbone. The jaw she’d brushed her fingers against. The scent of him, even under antiseptics, still lingered in the air.
Her heart thundered like a war drum.
Leave. Leave now. Get out before someone sees you.
But her feet didn’t move.
A nurse brushed past her and nodded toward the patient. “Lucky bastard,” she muttered. “He should’ve been DOA. But he’s a damn Wolfe.”
Isla didn’t answer.
“Vitals are stabilizing,” came another voice—Dr. Kent, the attending. “We’ve sedated him, but you can prep him for his neuro check. We’ll reduce sedation this afternoon.”
Isla nodded mechanically. “Yes, Doctor.”
As the others moved on, Isla slowly stepped toward the bed, her breath hitching.
She took a deep breath and did what she was trained to do.
Checked his IV lines.
Cleaned around his wounds.
Measured his pupil response under the lids.
Logged his vital stats into the chart.
All while pretending she didn’t know what his skin felt like under her fingers.
All while pretending she hadn’t moaned his name—not even knowing it was real.
All while pretending her heart wasn’t crawling up her throat.
But then, as she adjusted the blanket at his waist, his hand twitched.
Her eyes snapped to his face.
His fingers twitched again, curling slightly. His eyelids fluttered. The machines didn’t panic, but they flickered with activity. Heart rate rising. Oxygen levels spiking slightly.
He was waking up.
“No,” Isla whispered under her breath. “Not yet…”
She wasn’t ready.
He blinked—once, twice. Slowly. Groggy. Confused.
Then his eyes opened.
Ice-blue. Just like she remembered.
Her breath left her body.
He stared up at the ceiling, blinking, disoriented. She watched in frozen silence as his gaze drifted around the room, landing briefly on her face.
She tensed.
Did he recognize her?
Would he call her out in front of everyone?
Would he expose her for what she was—a nurse who’d slept with a patient hours before he became a headline?
His lips parted. He blinked again.
“You…” he rasped. His voice was cracked, broken. He winced, throat dry from the tube.
Isla’s heart stopped.
He frowned faintly, squinting at her face like trying to make sense of something.
“You’re… the nurse?”
She nodded, slowly. “Yes. I’m assigned to your care.”
No spark of recognition.
No raised brow. No smirk. No hint of memory.
She waited… and waited.
But it didn’t come.
He didn’t remember.
Isla exhaled, trying not to collapse with relief.
“Water,” he murmured hoarsely.
She nodded, quickly moving to the table and pouring a small cup. She supported his head gently and held the straw to his lips. His fingers brushed hers, but there was no spark.
No heat.
Only the brush of a stranger’s skin.
“Thank you,” he rasped, leaning back.
“You’re stable now,” she said, her voice practiced and calm despite the storm inside. “You’ve been through surgery. You have some fractures, mild swelling in your brain, but you’re doing better than anyone expected.”
His eyes studied her.
“You talk like I’m supposed to be dead.”
“You nearly were,” she said quietly.
He was silent for a long moment. Then, “How long have I been here?”
“Less than twelve hours.”
He closed his eyes briefly. “I remember the car… the lights…”
His voice trailed off. Isla set the water down and turned away to chart his progress, needing something—anything—to ground her.
“You’re Isla,” he said suddenly.
Her pen froze mid-stroke.
She turned slowly. “What?”
He nodded at her name tag. “It says Isla. That’s your name, right?”
She exhaled. “Yes.”
But inside, her heart was racing again.
She wasn’t sure what terrified her more: that he might remember what they did…
Or that he never would.
“Good name,” he murmured, before drifting back into a shallow sleep.
Isla stood there for a long moment, staring at him.
This man—Alexander Wolfe—was the most powerful patient she had ever been assigned to. A billionaire. A business tycoon. A global headline.
And she had kissed him like he was just a man.
Touched him like he was hers.
Now, he was hers again—in a completely different way. Under her care. Her responsibility.
And if anyone found out what had happened before this… she’d lose everything.
Her job.
Her license.
Her life.
She turned back to her chart and wrote down her final note:
Patient stable. Responsive. Memory… uncertain.
- Writer
