Chapter four
1693 Words
Damon Blackwell hated hospitals.
The smell of antiseptic couldn’t quite cover the underlying scent of illness and death. The fluorescent lights were too bright, too harsh. And his father’s room, with its beeping machines and sterile surfaces, felt more like a tomb than a place of healing.
Thomas Blackwell hadn’t opened his eyes in six months. The stroke had been massive, catastrophic, leaving him trapped in a body that no longer obeyed his commands. The doctors said he could hear, might understand, but there was no way to know for sure.
So Damon came every Thursday without fail. Read quarterly reports aloud. Discussed business strategies. Held his father’s limp hand and pretended it wasn’t killing him inside.
“Uncle Gregory is pushing harder,” Damon said, staring at his father’s slack face. “He’s got three board members in his pocket now. They’re talking about invoking the succession clause, the one about direct heirs. If I don’t have children within two years of taking over…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. They both knew what happened then. Everything his father had built would go to Gregory. Gregory, who’d run the company into the ground within five years. Who saw quarterly profits as more important than innovation. Who’d already been caught embezzling once, though they’d kept it quiet.
“I know you said the fertility specialist was wrong,” Damon continued. “But three different doctors have confirmed it, Dad. The mumps when I was twelve, the complications, I can’t have children. It’s not possible.”
The machines beeped their steady rhythm. His father’s chest rose and fell with mechanical precision.
“I’m out of options. Gregory knows it. He’s just waiting for the clock to run out.”
Damon stood, pressing a kiss to his father’s forehead. “I’ll figure something out. I promise.”
He was walking through the emergency ward toward the elevator when movement through an observation window caught his eye.
A woman on a gurney, unconscious, being rushed past by a team of medical personnel. Her face was bruised, swollen, but even damaged, there was something familiar about her features. Dark hair matted with blood. Pale skin. And her clothes, torn, stained, revealed something that made Damon’s heart stop.
She was pregnant. Visibly, undeniably pregnant.
He knew that face.
Impossible.
But he’d memorized every detail that night two months ago. The scatter of freckles across her nose. The shape of her lips. The way her eyes had looked up at him with trust despite everything.
Damon’s feet moved before his brain caught up. He followed the gurney down the hallway, his mind racing.
Two months ago. The timeline fit perfectly. But he couldn’t have children, every doctor had confirmed it. Unless…
Unless they were wrong. Unless that one night, against all medical impossibility, something had happened.
But why wouldn’t she have told him? Why wouldn’t she have reached out?
Because you assumed she was a prostitute, his conscience whispered. You treated her like a transaction and walked away.
“Excuse me.” Damon caught the attending physician, Dr. Michelson, according to his badge. “That woman. How is she?”
“Family only, I’m afraid. Privacy regulations.”
“How far along is she? The pregnancy?”
Dr. Michelson’s eyes narrowed with sudden interest. “About two months. Why? Do you know her?”
Two months. Exactly two months.
“I might. I need to know, is she going to be okay? Is the baby okay?”
“Babies,” Dr. Michelson corrected. “Twins. They’re stable for now, but she’s in critical condition. Multiple injuries, some of which appear to predate the accident considerably.”
Twins. Two babies. His babies?
“What kind of injuries?”
The doctor hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. “The kind that come from prolonged physical abuse. Fractured ribs, some old, some new. Defensive wounds on her arms. Someone’s been hurting her for a long time.”
Rage, white hot and terrible, flooded through Damon’s veins. “Do you know who?”
“She hasn’t been conscious to tell us. But when she wakes up…” Dr. Michelson studied him carefully. “Are you the father?”
Was he? Could he be?
“I don’t know,” Damon admitted. “But I need to find out.”
He should walk away. Should let the hospital handle it, let social services get involved, keep his distance from a situation that could explode his carefully constructed life.
Instead, he found himself at the nurses’ station, asking about her condition. Found himself paying her medical bills without hesitation, amounts that would cripple an ordinary person but barely registered in his accounts. Found himself returning the next day with flowers she couldn’t see.
And the day after that.
And the day after that.
“You’re here again?” The day nurse, Stacy, her badge read, smiled at him with knowing warmth. “That’s sweet. But I’m afraid visiting hours are for family only. Unless you’re a relative?”
The lie came easier the second time. “I’m her husband.”
Stacy’s expression melted into sympathy. “Oh! Why didn’t you say so? Come on, I’ll take you to her.”
The private room was quiet, peaceful, filled with the soft beeping of monitors. She looked smaller in the hospital bed, fragile, with tubes and wires connecting her to machines. But her belly rose in a gentle curve beneath the blankets, evidence of the lives growing inside her.
His children. Maybe. Possibly.
Probably.
Damon pulled a chair close and took her hand carefully, mindful of the IV. Her fingers were cold.
“I don’t know if you can hear me,” he said quietly. “I don’t even know your name. But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere until you wake up and tell me… tell me if those babies are mine.”
On the fourth day, Stacy stopped him at the door with an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry, sir, but hospital policy requires family verification for extended visits. Do you have your marriage certificate?”
Panic flickered through him. “I… we got married at the courthouse. It was quick, informal, ”
“That’s fine, but we’ll need documentation, ”
“Is there a problem?” Dr. Michelson appeared behind Stacy, and something in his expression suggested he knew exactly what was happening.
“Just verifying family relationships, Doctor.”
“Mr. Blackwell is her husband,” Dr. Michelson said firmly. “I’ve confirmed it with him personally. His visiting privileges should be unrestricted.”
After Stacy left, Dr. Michelson pulled Damon aside. “I know what you’re doing.”
“Do you?”
“She has signs of severe abuse. Systematic, prolonged abuse. Whoever hurt her needs to be held accountable.” The doctor’s jaw tightened. “When she wakes up, she’s going to need someone. If you’re not actually her husband, if you’re just some Good Samaritan, that’s fine. But if you commit to this, you commit fully. She can’t handle abandonment right now. Do you understand?”
Damon met his eyes. “I understand.”
“Good. Because I’m about to tell you something that makes this more complicated.” Dr. Michelson pulled out a chart. “The injuries she came in with, the fractured ribs, the old bruising, the partially healed bones, someone’s been hurting her for months, maybe years. Systematically. And based on the defensive wounds, she’s been fighting back.”
Every word made Damon’s rage burn hotter. “Can you tell who did it?”
“Not until she wakes up and tells us. But I can tell you this: whoever it was, they’ll likely try to find her. Abusers don’t like losing control of their victims.”
“Then she stays here,” Damon said immediately. “Private room. Security. No visitors except me.”
“That’s expensive, ”
“I don’t care what it costs. Keep her safe.”
Dr. Michelson nodded slowly. “All right. But when she wakes up, you’re going to have a lot of explaining to do.”
Two weeks after the accident, Damon was reading the Wall Street Journal aloud, a habit he’d fallen into, filling the silence, when he heard a sound.
A small, confused whimper.
His head snapped up. Her eyes were fluttering, fighting their way open. After two weeks of nothing, she was waking up.
“Nurse!” Damon lunged for the call button. “She’s waking up!”
Her eyes opened fully, unfocused and confused. Her hand immediately went to her belly, and relief crossed her face when she felt the swell still there.
“Hello?” Her voice was hoarse from disuse. “Where…?”
Medical staff flooded in. Dr. Michelson came to her side, checking her vitals and making sure everything was okay.
“You were involved in an accident, can you tell me your name?”
Accident? How come she doesn’t remember.
“My name is . . . “ she trailed off. She couldn’t remember. She couldn’t remember anything.
“I don’t know.” She started to sob.
“It’s okay. You’ve suffered a severe trauma. The amnesia is your brain’s coping mechanism.”
“What about . . . my baby.”
“Your babies are fine.”
“Babies?”
“You’re carrying twins.”
“What about?” She paused considering things. Since she was pregnant she must be married right?
“I’ll come back later to check your vitals.”
He said and left the room before she could stop him.
Before she had the time to start to panic and think about her situation she noticed the man in the , but calling this being in her hospital room a man would be an insult. He walked up to her bed and she was marveled. He was built like a greek god.
“How are you?” And sounded like one too.
“Are you . . . Are you my husband?”
He blocked twice as if he didn’t know how to respond. Then finally he replied.
“Yes. I’m your husband. We are married.”
- Writer
