CHAPTER 6
1216 Words
The morning sun filtered through the blinds as Isla stood beside the hospital bed, watching the man she thought she might never see awake again.
Alexander Wolfe stirred beneath the crisp white sheets, the slight twitch of his fingers followed by the deep rise and fall of his chest. His head shifted, and his eyes—sharp, alert, and unmistakably clear—opened.
Isla held her breath.
He blinked slowly, surveying the room before settling his gaze on her.
“Miss Munroe,” he said, his voice rough but firm.
Her heart skipped a beat. That tone—calculated, in control. So familiar.
“You're awake,” she managed, forcing her voice to remain steady.
“I assume I gave everyone quite a scare,” he said, lifting a hand and brushing his fingers against his temple.
“You coded,” she whispered. “For almost two minutes.”
His gaze met hers again. Cool, composed. No trace of the vulnerable man who had clung to life just hours ago.
And no mention of the night they’d shared.
No recognition beyond the professional.
She swallowed hard. “You’ve been monitored closely. Your vitals have stabilized. Dr. Harvey says you’re well enough for discharge.”
“Of course I am,” he muttered, already moving to sit up. “Hospitals are for the weak.”
She stepped forward instinctively. “You should take it easy.”
“I’ve never taken anything easy, Nurse Munroe.”
He flashed a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
The same arrogance.
The same command.
But beneath it, Isla searched for something else—some flicker of memory. A hint of that night. The way he’d looked at her after it all.
But there was nothing.
He didn’t say a word.
And she didn’t ask.
Because if he remembered and chose to ignore it—that hurt.
But if he didn’t remember at all… that might be worse.
She helped him dress in silence. Alex barely needed assistance, but he didn’t stop her either. Once he was ready, the nurse assigned to the discharge process arrived with forms and instructions. Isla hovered in the background, quiet and uncertain, as the machine of bureaucracy clicked into motion.
By noon, Alexander Wolfe was officially discharged.
And just like that, he was gone.
That evening, the estate at Wolfe Manor buzzed with tension.
Security guards lined the hallways, earpieces humming, and his personal assistant hovered with a flurry of calls and reports. But Alexander paid them no mind as he strode straight to the east wing—where his private surveillance room was tucked behind an armored steel door.
Mason, his head of security, stood waiting.
“Talk,” Alex said, stepping into the dim, monitor-lit room.
Mason gave a clipped nod and brought up several feeds on the wall.
“The car crash wasn’t an accident,” he said bluntly. “We’ve reviewed the footage from nearby traffic cams, your vehicle’s black box, and the GPS tracking logs. It was deliberate.”
Alex’s jaw clenched. “How?”
“Your brakes were tampered with. We found evidence of a remote interference device planted under the chassis. Clean work. Professional.”
A muscle ticked in his cheek. “And?”
Mason clicked a few keys, pulling up a paused frame of grainy footage.
Then he zoomed in.
It was a figure in a gray coat—sleek, tailored, and unmistakably expensive—stepping out of a black town car not far from the scene of the crash.
Even from the low-resolution still, Alex recognized the posture. The arrogance.
The calculated smirk.
“Julian Knight,” he said coldly.
Mason nodded once. “Your former partner. He was in the area the night of your crash. Witnesses place him at a nearby rooftop bar with known security contractors two hours before the incident.”
Alex’s eyes narrowed.
Julian Knight.
The man he once called a brother.
The man who had stood beside him at WolfeTech’s founding and then walked away when greed became more seductive than loyalty.
Now he was back—and apparently, more ruthless than ever.
Alex’s fingers curled into a fist.
“So this was a warning,” he murmured.
“A power move,” Mason agreed. “He wants to shake the throne before he takes it.”
Not if Alex could help it.
“Double the security detail,” he said. “And keep Knight under constant surveillance. If he makes another move, I want to know before he blinks.”
“Yes, sir.”
But even as Mason left, Alex remained staring at the screen.
His body was healing.
His empire would weather the storm.
But now, the war had begun.
And he intended to win.
Back at the hospital, Isla stood outside the surgical wing, arms wrapped around herself despite the warmth in the air.
She hadn’t expected to see him again so soon.
Dr. Elijah Hart.
Tall, commanding, and impossibly calm, Dr. Hart was the very image of everything Isla once admired. He’d been her mentor in medical school, the one who taught her how to keep steady hands under pressure, how to speak with certainty even when doubt threatened to crush her.
And yet, standing before him now, Isla felt like the same nervous girl from years ago.
“Dr. Hart,” she greeted softly.
He turned, his familiar face breaking into a gentle smile. “Isla Munroe. You’ve grown into your scrubs, I see.”
She laughed faintly. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I transferred into Westbridge’s cardiac unit a few weeks ago. Needed a change of pace.”
Her smile faded slightly. “After what happened at Mount Sinai?”
His gaze shifted. “That’s a long story.”
She nodded, deciding not to press. “It’s good to see you.”
He studied her for a moment. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar,” he said kindly. “You always were terrible at hiding it.”
Isla exhaled. “One of my patients… nearly died last night.”
“The billionaire?”
She looked up, startled.
Elijah shrugged. “Hospitals talk. Especially when WolfeTech’s CEO nearly flatlines in the ICU.”
Isla hesitated. “He’s out now. Stable.”
“But you’re not,” Elijah observed quietly. “Are you involved, Isla?”
Her heart skipped.
He didn’t mean romantically. Or maybe he did.
She didn’t answer.
Dr. Hart didn’t push. “You’ve got instincts. Always had them. If something doesn’t sit right—don’t ignore it.”
She looked away. “I’m not sure I can trust my instincts this time.”
“Then borrow mine,” he said with a small smile. “I’m always here. Don’t forget that.”
And just like that, he walked away, leaving her standing there—torn between the past, the present, and a future growing more complicated by the second.
At that same moment, in the back of a limo with tinted glass and imported leather, Julian Knight was pouring himself a drink.
“Alex Wolfe is awake,” his assistant reported.
Julian swirled the amber liquid in his glass, then smiled slowly.
“Good,” he murmured. “Let the game begin.”
- Writer
