The Don's Mistake

The stranger's uncertainty

Emily's POV

My heart raced, each beat echoing the frantic pace of my thoughts. I couldn't understand why I felt this way. I barely knew this man. Yet, the mere thought of him not making it sent waves of nausea crashing over me.

"Get a hold of yourself, Emily," I scolded myself, but the worry refused to loosen its grip.

Hours dragged by, each minute stretching into eternity as I waited for any news about the stranger lying in that hospital bed. The sterile smell of the hospital, the low hum of fluorescent lights, and the distant beeping of medical machines only heightened my anxiety.

Fidgeting nervously, I prayed for a distraction, anything to silence the incessant drumming of my anxious thoughts. I glanced around the waiting room, where the worn-out faces of other visitors mirrored my despair. The old magazines strewn about were no longer a source of solace, their pages crinkled and yellowed from countless hands seeking a momentary escape.

Then, my phone rang, a call from Chris. "Not now, Chris," I muttered, silencing the device as I sank deeper into my cocoon of worry. Chris was the last person I wanted to talk to right now, with his incessant questions and probing remarks.

Exhausted from the day's events, I closed my eyes, seeking refuge in the oblivion of sleep. But even sleep was elusive, slipping through my fingers like sand.

I couldn't tell how long I had drifted in and out of consciousness when a voice broke through the haze, pulling me back to reality.

"Ma'am... Ma'am," the voice persisted, and I blinked blearily, my gaze settling on a beautiful woman in scrubs. Her kind eyes and warm smile momentarily eased my anxiety.

"Hi, I'm Doctor Jada. I attended to your husband," she explained, and for a moment, confusion clouded my mind.

"Husband?" I echoed, struggling to comprehend her words in my drowsy state.

"The man you brought in with a gunshot wound," she clarified, and suddenly, everything clicked into place.

"Yes, my husband," I exclaimed, a surge of adrenaline jolting me awake as I scrambled to maintain the facade.

"How is he? Did he survive?" I demanded, my heart hammering in my chest.

"He lost a lot of blood, but you brought him in just in time," the doctor answered, but her words failed to reassure me. The image of his lifeless body flashed before my eyes, a chilling reminder of how close he had come to death.

" he is ... he is alive?" I pressed, relief flooding through me when the doctor nodded, a smile lighting up her face.

"He's alive," she confirmed, and I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. The tight knot of fear that had coiled in my stomach began to unwind.

"Thank you, thank you," I gushed, pulling the doctor into an impulsive hug before she gently pulled away. Her warmth and professionalism were a stark contrast to the cold, clinical environment around us.

"I'm sorry, but he's not out of the woods yet. The next 24 hours will be critical," she cautioned, and the smile faltered on my lips.

"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice trembling with apprehension.

"If he can make it through the next day, he should be fine. But he'll need all the support he can get," the doctor explained, and I nodded, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. The weight of her words pressed heavily on my heart, each beat a reminder of the fragile line between life and death.

"Thank you, Doctor," I murmured, sinking into a nearby chair as a wave of emotions threatened to overwhelm me. Relief, fear, and uncertainty churned within me, a tumultuous storm that I struggled to calm.

"I'll have a nurse show you to your husband's room. He needs you by his side, and we would also need a statement for the police," the doctor said.

“Police?” I questioned, my mind racing with the implications.

“It is just standard procedure with gunshot victims," the doctor said, and I nodded, steeling myself for the challenges ahead. I realized that my involvement was far from over.

The doctor soon walked away, leaving me alone with my thoughts. The reality of the situation began to sink in, and I felt a deep sense of responsibility for this man I barely knew.

"I don't even know this man, or why he was shot," I muttered to myself as I hastily rose from my seat, making a beeline for the exit. My instincts screamed at me to flee, to escape the suffocating pressure of a situation I didn't understand.

But just as I reached for the door handle, a nurse intercepted me.

"Ma'am, are you leaving without seeing your husband?" she inquired, her gaze probing.

"Fresh air... Yes, I need some fresh air. It's all just too overwhelming," I replied, scrambling for a plausible excuse. My voice wavered, betraying my uncertainty.

The nurse eyed me with suspicion before remarking, "I understand, but you should see your husband. He'll need you if he pulls through."

"My husband... Yes, he will need me," I stammered, feeling a lump form in my throat. The word "husband" felt foreign on my tongue, a lie that had quickly become my reality.

"Come, let me show you to his room," the nurse said with a reassuring smile, and I reluctantly followed her, knowing I had no other option. The corridor seemed to stretch endlessly, each step amplifying my apprehension.

She left me in front of his door, and I hesitated, my hand hovering uncertainly over the handle. But the voices in my head urged me on, pushing me to confront the unknown.

Steeling myself, I pushed open the door and stepped inside, my eyes immediately drawn to the figure lying motionless on the bed. His stillness was unnerving, a stark contrast to the turmoil within me.

Approaching him tentatively, I couldn't help but study his features, each detail etched with pain and exhaustion. His face, though marred by bruises and bandages, held a quiet dignity. But amidst the injuries, there was a quiet strength that spoke volumes.

And then I saw it... the tattoo, bold and unapologetic, emblazoned across his chest. "Amara."

The name tugged at something deep within me, a faint echo of familiarity dancing at the edges of my consciousness. Who was Amara? And why did this name evoke such a strong reaction in me?

But before I could dwell on it further, his voice broke through the silence, a whisper of longing that stirred something within me.

"Amara, you came back," he murmured, his words hanging in the air like a fragile promise. His voice, though weak, was filled with emotion.

As he slipped back into unconsciousness, I was left with more questions than answers. But one thing was clear, I couldn't walk away, not when this stranger needed me the most.