CHAPTER 5
1037 Words
The monitors began to scream.
Isla’s heart leapt into her throat as the steady rhythm of Alexander Wolfe’s vitals collapsed into chaos. His heart rate plummeted, the green line on the monitor stuttering and then flatlining in a shriek of noise.
“Code blue! Room 417!”
The words tore from her lips as she slammed her hand against the emergency button. Her fingers were already moving—instinct, training, adrenaline. Nurses flooded the room. A crash cart appeared at her side.
“Charge to 200!”
She pressed the defibrillator paddles to Alex’s chest, sweat pouring down her back. The world blurred around her. There was only the silence of his body and the urgency in her pulse.
“Clear!”
His body jolted.
Still nothing.
She swallowed panic and reset the machine. “Charge to 300! Again!”
“Clear!”
The second shock slammed through his chest—and this time, a blip.
Then another.
Then the slow, blessed return of a rhythm.
“He’s back,” a nurse whispered.
But Isla didn’t breathe. Not yet. She leaned over him, checking his pupils, watching his chest rise and fall with shallow effort. Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted his oxygen mask.
And then—he stirred.
Just barely.
His fingers twitched. His head lolled.
And those eyes—those ice-blue eyes she’d memorized in a single night—fluttered open and locked on hers.
For a long, breathless second, he stared.
Confusion. Pain. And something else.
Recognition?
Isla didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her throat was dry, her heart thudding violently against her ribs.
But then the moment passed. His lids fluttered shut again, and he slipped back into unconsciousness.
“He needs to be stabilized,” Dr. Harvey barked, stepping in. “Vitals every fifteen minutes. No lapses.”
Isla nodded, but the ringing in her ears hadn't stopped.
That look…
Did he remember?
She stood there, rooted, long after the others had left. The beeping of the monitor steadied, matching the breath that finally escaped her lungs. But her thoughts were chaos.
When the hospital director called her down to the administrative floor an hour later, she feared the worst.
Another reprimand?
A release?
But what she got instead nearly knocked her off her feet.
“Miss Munroe,” Director Lang said briskly, without looking up from his tablet, “Mr. Wolfe has personally requested you as his full-time nurse for the remainder of his stay.”
Isla blinked. “What?”
Lang finally met her gaze. “He wants you. Around the clock. Effective immediately.”
Her stomach coiled. “But—why?”
“No idea. Maybe he saw something in you during the episode,” Lang said, clearly uninterested in speculation. “Whatever the case, the Wolfe family is one of our biggest donors. Their requests are taken seriously. You'll be compensated at double rate, and your contract will reflect a temporary private assignment.”
Isla nodded, dazed. “I... understand.”
“Good. Get back up there. He’s stable but weak. And I don’t need to tell you—if anything happens to Alexander Wolfe on our watch, every reporter in the city will be banging on our door.”
She left the office in a fog.
Back in the ICU, she stood quietly beside his bed. His face was pale, lips chapped, a faint sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. Yet even unconscious, there was power in his presence. A steeliness beneath the vulnerability.
She touched his wrist gently, checking his pulse. Stronger now. Recovering.
Still alive.
Still dangerous—to her, to her secrets.
As she sat down at the edge of his bed, the memory of the way he’d looked at her burned in her chest.
He remembered.
Even if only a flicker… he remembered.
She leaned forward, brushing his hair gently from his forehead. “Why me?” she whispered. “Why now?”
The question hung in the silence, unanswered. He didn’t stir this time. But something in her gut twisted. This wasn’t normal. Billionaires didn’t make personal requests unless something mattered. And for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why she mattered.
Outside, the hallway buzzed with distant footsteps and intercom chatter. But Isla barely heard any of it—until the overhead screen in the ICU lounge flashed to breaking news.
“WolfeTech shares plummet as CEO remains hospitalized. Meanwhile, billionaire rival Julian Knight makes a surprise appearance in New York following Wolfe’s accident…”
Isla’s head snapped toward the screen.
Julian Knight.
She’d heard the name—who hadn’t? Tech tycoon, media darling, and recently a thorn in Alexander Wolfe’s empire. Rumors said they’d once been close. Brothers in ambition. Now, they were anything but.
The news anchor continued: “…Though no formal statement has been released, sources confirm Knight was in the city the night of Wolfe’s accident. Some speculate the rivalry between the two moguls may have reached a breaking point…”
Isla’s blood turned cold.
Julian Knight had been in New York.
The same night.
And now he was circling like a vulture, perfectly timed for Wolfe’s fall.
Coincidence?
Or something far worse?
Her thoughts spiraled as she studied the photo the news flashed onscreen—Julian, polished and poised, stepping out of a sleek black car, sunglasses hiding his eyes, but his smirk unmistakable. He didn’t look concerned. Not even a little.
No grief. No guilt.
Only satisfaction.
Isla’s gaze shifted back to the man lying in the bed beside her. Alex’s breathing was shallow but steady. Fragile but alive. And now she wasn’t sure he’d gotten there by accident.
Julian Knight had motive. He had means. He had timing.
She had no proof—just a gut-deep certainty forming like ice in her veins.
There was more to this story.
Something dark.
Something twisted.
And Isla was no longer just a bystander.
She was in it now—deep.
Too deep to back out.
And as the screen flickered back to Julian Knight’s perfectly sculpted face and icy smirk, one thing became very clear:
This wasn’t just an accident.
It was a warning.
And the war between billionaires?
Had only just begun.
- Writer
