Chapter 5
680words
Until finally, the doors swung open.
"How is he?" I rushed to the doctor, my voice raw from crying.
The doctor looked at me grimly. "No vital organs were hit. But he lost a dangerous amount of blood, and with those sedatives in his system, his condition remains critical."
Sedatives... My heart twisted with guilt.
All my fault. If I hadn't been so damn clever with that drugged water...
The thought made fresh tears stream down my face.
I owed him everything.
After the doctor finished, he left us alone in the room.
I approached the bed and gazed down at his unconscious face.
His lips were bloodless, dark circles beneath his eyes making him look vulnerable in a way I'd never seen before.
I reached out to touch him, then froze as I noticed the web of old scars visible beneath his hospital gown.
My fingers trembled as I traced a raised scar along his ribs, then the puckered crater of an old bullet wound on his shoulder.
These scars told a silent story of the hell he'd crawled through to survive.
And I—this spoiled, selfish princess—had nearly pushed him into death's arms for my ridiculous scheme.
"I'm so sorry..." Tears fell unchecked onto the back of his hand. "It's my fault. I drugged your water. You trusted me, and I—I'm so sorry..."
I sobbed like a child, pressing his palm against my wet cheek.
I don't know how long I cried before I noticed the phone on the bedside table.
A video call from my father. He wouldn't stop calling.
Hatred surged through me like wildfire.
If not for him—if not for this goddamn arranged marriage—none of this would have happened.
I wiped my tears, snatched a fruit knife from the nearby tray, pressed it to my throat, and answered the call.
The screen lit up with my father's thunderous face.
"Irene! Where the hell are—"
His words died as he saw the knife at my throat and the figure in the hospital bed behind me.
"Have you lost your fucking mind?" he roared.
"I'm perfectly sane." I stared him down, teeth clenched. "Anthony Rossi, here are your options. One: cancel the Wilson engagement and let me marry him."
I turned the camera to show Damon's profile. "I don't care who he is—thug, killer, whatever. I'm spending my life with him."
"Two," I pressed the blade harder, feeling a warm trickle of blood, "you can collect our bodies together."
"You wouldn't dare!" My father's face contorted with rage.
"Try me." I sneered and ended the call.
The room fell into heavy silence.
I tossed the knife aside and sank back onto the edge of the bed, clutching Damon's hand.
Just then, his fingers twitched.
I looked up to find his eyes open—still fathomless, but now filled with bone-deep weariness instead of mockery.
"If..." he began, his voice barely audible, "I have nothing—if I'm just a criminal with blood on my hands—would you still want me?"
I looked at him, something cracking open inside my chest.
When he stepped between me and death, I'd already made my choice.
I leaned down, my lips brushing his ear, and whispered with absolute conviction:
"I'll say it again—I want you. The man." I pressed my lips to his. "Even if you're the devil himself, I'll follow you to hell."
His pupils dilated sharply. In the depths of those exhausted eyes, something fierce and primal ignited.
"Irene Rossi," he stared at me, each word burning like a brand, "remember what you said today. There's no taking it back."
Three days later, Damon's condition stabilized.
We slid into a black car—nondescript outside, obscenely luxurious inside.
Destination: New York. The Rossi Family headquarters.
My father had caved.
He'd demanded I bring "that man" back—said he wanted to see with his own eyes what kind of person would make his daughter willing to die.
Holding Damon's hand, I watched the scenery blur past, not a trace of fear in my heart.
This time, I wasn't fighting alone.
