Chapter 5: The Ring He Never Threw Away
982 Words
The phone wouldn’t stop ringing.
Amara groaned and pulled a pillow over her head.
For a glorious second, she considered throwing the device across the room.
Then it rang again.
And again.
And again.
With a sigh, she reached for it.
Unknown Number.
She declined the call immediately.
Five seconds later, another call came through.
Unknown Number.
“Persistent,” she muttered.
The room was still dim. Her body ached from twenty hours of surgery, stress, and almost no sleep.
A soft knock sounded at her door.
Before she could answer, it opened slightly.
Victoria stepped inside carrying two cups of coffee and a paper bag.
“Please tell me you’re awake.”
Amara stared at her.
Victoria laughed.
“That’s not a good sign.”
The smell of coffee instantly filled the suite.
Real coffee.
Not hospital coffee.
Amara nearly cried.
“You are my favorite person.”
“I know.”
Victoria handed her a cup.
“And don’t worry. I cancelled three interviews, rejected six reporters, and threatened one television station.”
Amara blinked.
“You threatened them?”
“Professionally.”
That earned an actual laugh.
For the first time in days.
Victoria smiled.
“There she is.”
The warmth in her voice felt genuine.
It always did.
Amara shook her head.
“I owe you.”
“No.”
Victoria sat beside her.
“You really don’t.”
For a moment, neither woman spoke.
The silence was comfortable.
Familiar.
The kind that only existed between people who genuinely cared about each other.
Then Victoria cleared her throat.
“There’s something else.”
Amara looked up.
“Damian woke up.”
Everything inside her froze.
Just for a second.
Then she carefully placed her coffee down.
“How is he?”
Victoria’s smile widened slightly.
“His first question was about you.”
Amara rolled her eyes.
“Of course it was.”
“He was very dramatic.”
“Also not surprising.”
Victoria laughed.
The tension eased.
But not completely.
Because neither of them said what they were both thinking.
Damian was alive.
And everything was becoming complicated.
Again.
⸻
Recovery Room 12
Damian stared at the ceiling.
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
His head still hurt.
His chest felt strange.
But he was alive.
A miracle, according to every doctor who had entered his room.
A miracle with Amara’s fingerprints all over it.
The door opened.
His heart immediately jumped.
Then fell.
Not Amara.
Just Victoria.
“Wow.”
His sister looked amused.
“You look terrible.”
“Good morning to you too.”
She walked inside carrying a tablet.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like I got run over by a truck.”
“A small improvement then.”
Damian snorted.
Victoria sat down.
For a moment she simply watched him.
Then she smiled.
“She saved you.”
His chest tightened instantly.
Amara.
Even hearing her name hurt.
“Yeah.”
Victoria’s expression softened.
“You should have seen her.”
Something dangerous flashed through Damian’s eyes.
“What happened?”
“She fought everyone.”
His brow furrowed.
“What do you mean?”
Victoria leaned back.
“Dad wanted the surgery stopped.”
Damian went still.
“What?”
“The chip was killing you. Nobody wanted to risk removing it.”
She paused.
“Amara did.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Uncomfortable.
Damian looked away.
His throat suddenly felt too tight.
Victoria stood.
Walking toward the window.
“You know…”
Her voice softened.
“I always thought she loved you more than you deserved.”
The words landed like a punch.
Because they were true.
And they both knew it.
⸻
Later that afternoon, Amara finally entered Damian’s room.
The second she walked in, his gaze found her.
Stayed there.
Refused to leave.
She ignored it.
Professional.
Cold.
Safe.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better.”
Lie.
The answer came too quickly.
Amara checked his chart.
His vitals.
His medications.
Anything except his face.
Damian watched every movement.
Every breath.
Every second.
Finally, he spoke.
“You look tired.”
She didn’t even glance up.
“That’s because I spent twelve hours keeping you alive.”
A corner of his mouth twitched.
The closest thing to a smile she’d seen from him in years.
Then silence returned.
Dangerous silence.
The kind filled with old memories.
Old wounds.
Old love.
Amara hated it.
So she turned to leave.
“Wait.”
His voice stopped her.
Slowly, she looked back.
Damian swallowed.
Hard.
“Why did you become a neurosurgeon?”
The question caught her off guard.
Of all the things he could have asked…
That?
Amara stared at him.
Then laughed softly.
Not because it was funny.
Because it wasn’t.
“You don’t remember?”
His stomach dropped.
“What?”
She looked at him for a long moment.
Something unreadable moving behind her eyes.
Then she spoke.
“You used to talk about opening a neuroscience center.”
Damian froze.
“You said Nigeria needed one.”
The room suddenly felt smaller.
“You spent years talking about it.”
His pulse pounded.
Because he remembered.
The tiny apartment.
The late nights.
The dreams.
All of it.
“I thought if one of us made it…” she whispered, “that would be enough.”
Neither spoke.
Neither moved.
The silence hurt.
Then a nurse entered carrying a small sealed evidence bag.
“Doctor?”
Amara turned.
“Yes?”
The nurse handed it over.
“We found this among Mr. Blackstone’s personal belongings.”
Amara frowned.
The bag contained a single object.
A gold wedding ring.
Her wedding ring.
The one she had left on Damian’s desk the night of the divorce.
The room went completely silent.
Amara’s blood ran cold.
Because after all these years—
He had never thrown it away.
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