CHAPTER 4
1330 Words
Isla had never met a patient like Alexander Wolfe.
And she never wanted to again.
The man who had once kissed her like the world was ending now stared at her like she was dirt beneath his designer shoes. Cold. Distant. Arrogant. His hospital room might as well have been an empire, and he, the ice king atop his broken throne.
“You’re late,” he snapped as soon as she entered the room.
Isla blinked at the clock. “I’m five minutes early.”
He didn’t look at her. He never did for long. “Then why am I still waiting on my medication?”
“Because pharmacy only just—”
“Spare me the excuses,” he interrupted, shifting stiffly in the bed. “You work in a hospital. Time is your job. Or is that too complicated for you?”
Her jaw clenched. She bit back the first response that came to mind—something sharp and unprofessional. Something about how he hadn’t seemed to mind her timing a few nights ago.
But that wasn’t fair.
He didn’t remember.
And maybe that was the worst part.
He didn’t remember her body under his. Didn’t remember her name whispered in the dark. Didn’t remember the way he’d held her like he was drowning and she was the only thing keeping him afloat.
Now, he barely remembered she was human.
She handed him his medication in silence and adjusted his IV. He watched her like a hawk, cold and calculating, as if she might steal something if he blinked too long.
“You're trembling,” he observed flatly.
“I’m fine,” she lied.
“You should ask to be reassigned,” he said, tone casual. “You’re clearly not cut out for this level of care.”
She turned sharply. “Excuse me?”
“You flinch when I speak. You hesitate with the chart. Your bedside manner is pitiful. And frankly, I don't like being watched by someone who's afraid of me.”
She stared at him, heat rising in her cheeks. Afraid? She wasn’t afraid of him. She was afraid of what she knew—what no one else did. Of how close she’d come to losing everything with one reckless night.
“You don’t get to decide who takes care of you, Mr. Wolfe,” she said evenly.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “You think I don’t?”
“No. Not in this room. Not right now.”
There was a long, cold silence.
Then, to her surprise, he smiled.
It wasn’t warm.
It was cruel.
“Interesting,” he murmured. “So there’s a spine under that white coat after all.”
Isla turned and walked out before she said something she couldn’t take back.
She made it exactly fourteen steps down the hallway before the panic hit.
She ducked into the supply closet, locked the door, and braced her back against the wall.
She couldn’t keep doing this.
Every moment with him was a blade under her ribs. The guilt. The tension. The fact that she knew and he didn’t—that she held a secret that could destroy her entire life.
She didn’t belong here.
She had to quit.
Marla raised a brow when Isla marched into her office twenty minutes later. “You look like someone punched your puppy.”
“I want to be reassigned.”
Marla blinked. “What?”
“I can’t do it. He’s impossible. He’s condescending, controlling, rude—”
“He’s also paying this hospital a fortune. And you’re one of the few nurses qualified to handle neurological trauma with emotional sensitivity.”
“I don’t feel emotionally sensitive,” Isla snapped.
Marla leaned back in her chair. “Let me guess—he got under your skin?”
“You don’t understand.”
Marla’s gaze sharpened. “Then help me understand, Isla. Why are you really so rattled? You’ve handled worse patients than this.”
Isla hesitated. “I just… can’t be in that room anymore.”
Marla folded her arms. “Do you want to lose your job?”
The threat hung heavy in the air.
“I’m not trying to cause trouble,” Isla said quietly. “But this isn’t working. For me or for him.”
“Well,” Marla said, “he hasn’t asked for a new nurse.”
“He basically said—”
Marla cut her off. “If the billionaire himself doesn’t demand a replacement, then you don’t get to just walk away.”
Isla looked down at her shoes, throat burning.
Marla softened just slightly. “Just hold on a few more days. He won’t be here forever.”
She didn’t respond.
She couldn’t.
That night, Isla walked home in silence. Her shoes felt like lead. Her scrubs smelled like antiseptic and anxiety.
Her phone rang as she crossed into the apartment parking lot. She didn’t look at the caller ID—just answered out of habit.
“Isla.”
Clara.
Her sister’s voice was hoarse, frantic. Trouble, again.
“Clara?” Isla stopped walking. “What’s wrong?”
“I—I didn’t know who else to call,” Clara whispered.
Isla’s stomach dropped. “What happened?”
“I need money.”
“Clara—”
“Please, just listen—”
“I have been listening. Every time you call, it’s the same story. Rent, bills, some guy, a broken promise—”
“This is different!” Clara cried. “He—he took everything. My cards, my phone. I just got it back. I’m staying at some guy’s place, but I can’t keep doing this. I need to come back.”
Isla closed her eyes. “Come back where?”
“Home. To you.”
“I live in a one-bedroom apartment.”
“I can sleep on the couch!”
“You said you were done needing me.”
“I lied!” Clara sobbed. “I’m not strong like you.”
Isla felt her heart cracking open, same as it always did. No matter how many times Clara let her down, she couldn’t let her stay broken.
“I’ll figure something out,” Isla said softly.
Clara exhaled with relief. “Thank you.”
“Just… stay where you are. I’ll call you later.”
She hung up before she could cry.
By the time Isla returned to work the next morning, exhaustion had settled into her bones.
Her phone buzzed constantly—Clara sending messages about bus tickets, job applications, promises she wouldn’t keep. Isla couldn’t think straight. Her head was pounding.
Room 417 loomed ahead.
She took a deep breath and stepped inside.
Alexander was awake, staring at the ceiling.
“You’re back,” he said without looking at her.
“Apparently,” she muttered, setting down her chart.
He turned his head, eyes scanning her face. “Rough night?”
She blinked. That was… almost human of him.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“No, you’re not.”
She looked at him, stunned.
He shrugged one shoulder. “You walk like you’re carrying the weight of the world. And you keep checking your phone like someone might be dying.”
She said nothing.
He didn’t push.
The silence that followed was oddly… bearable.
Then, softly, he said, “I’ve been told I was in a coma for almost twelve hours.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember any of it.”
She nodded.
“I don’t remember much before that either. Just flashes. Lights. The road. A bar, maybe.”
Her hands stilled over his IV line.
“But no faces,” he continued. “No names. Not even mine, for a while. I only remembered who I was because someone told me.”
He looked at her again.
“I hate not knowing.”
Her chest tightened.
If only he knew the one thing he was missing most… was her.
- Writer
