Chapter 144

Chapter 144
NAYA'S POV

Morning light spilled through the wide hospital windows, pale and heavy, the kind that made the whole place feel both sterile and quietly sorrowful. I had been here since early, walking beside Stella as she handled the paperwork for her mother. Even now, the weight of it still pressed against the air between us—the finality of death, the harsh truth written into medical forms and stamped signatures. Stella’s face was pale, almost numb, though I caught the slight tremor of her hand when she signed her name.

I’d stayed close, helping her through every question the hospital staff asked, making sure her voice didn’t waver too much. Grief has a way of swallowing people whole, and Stella—brave as she tries to be—looked like she was barely keeping her head above water.

When everything was done, we sat together on the hard plastic chairs by the waiting area. For a long while, neither of us spoke, and I wondered if silence was the only thing that made sense in moments like this. But I couldn’t keep quiet for long. My mind kept circling back to last night, to Arthur, to the conversation we’d had.

So I reached for Stella gently, touching her arm. “I told Arthur about the estate documents,” I said softly, careful with my words.

Her eyes flickered, wide with nervousness, as if she had been waiting for this moment. “And…?” she asked, her voice catching just slightly.

I smiled, reassuring, though inside I still felt the echo of tension. “He understands, Stella. He knows you acted out of desperation. And he also knows Victor was playing with your mind. Arthur isn’t holding it against you.”

I saw the way her shoulders sagged, like a burden she didn’t even realize she was still carrying had just been lifted. But I wasn’t finished.

“You should still apologize to him yourself,” I added. My tone was soft but firm. “He deserves to hear it from you, and you deserve to let it out of your chest. Believe me, it’ll help you breathe easier.”

For a moment, she just stared down at her hands folded tightly in her lap. Then she gave a small, almost fragile nod. “I know,” she whispered, her voice breaking just enough to show the guilt that lingered inside her. “I will. I’ll apologize to him. Definitely.”

I smiled then, gently, and placed my hand over hers. “Good,” I said simply, because sometimes there was no need to overcomplicate the truth.

Just as I was about to say something else, a nurse approached us. Her steps were quick, purposeful, and when she stopped in front of us, her expression carried a sort of urgency I didn’t expect.

“Miss?” the nurse looked at Stella first, then at me. “Jordan is awake.”

The words hit like a sudden rush of air. I swear I felt Stella’s breath hitch beside me, sharp and trembling. She pressed a hand to her chest, and for the first time in days, something like light returned to her face. Excitement—raw, unexplainable, uncontainable—burned in her eyes.

I couldn’t stop myself from smiling too, relief flooding through me so quickly it almost made my knees weak. Jordan had been lying there, still and silent, for too long. Seeing him awake—it meant hope, it meant strength returning where we feared it was lost.

“Come,” I said, my voice softer now, carrying both my relief and urgency.

Together, Stella and I rose from our seats, moving quickly down the corridor, side by side. She was trembling with anticipation, and I—though calmer on the outside—was holding on to the same prayer inside my chest. That when we walked through that door, Jordan would be himself again, that we’d see life shining in his eyes.

And as we neared his room, the sterile scent of antiseptic seemed less sharp, less suffocating. Hope had a way of changing the air around you.

The room was warm with the hum of machines, but my mind was far away. Stella hovered over Jordan like he was the very air she breathed, her relief pouring out of her in little gasps, trembles, and smiles that she didn’t even realize she was giving him. I stood there, arms folded loosely, and the corners of my lips tried to hold onto a smile, but it faltered. It was awkward—the way happiness for them wrestled against the unease crawling in my chest.

Arthur.

The name alone made my throat tighten. Where was he right now? Was he safe? Had the meeting gone the way he hoped, or had Victor found a way to pull one of his dirty tricks again? I hated the not knowing. The silence from him felt heavier than I wanted to admit, like a shadow pressing down on my ribs. I wondered why he hadn’t called, why he hadn’t sent even a brief message. God, even one line from him—I’m okay—would’ve been enough. Anything to stop the ache of imagining the worst.

I missed him. There, I said it, even if only in my thoughts. It sat inside me with a raw honesty that almost burned. He could be a little distant, and maddening at times, but still—I missed him, so much. The way he looked at me like he was weighing every word I spoke. The rare moments when the mask slipped and I saw the man beneath all that armor. The thought of him not walking back through those doors was something I couldn’t stomach.

Jordan’s strained grunt pulled me back, snapping the thread of my thoughts so quickly I blinked. His voice was hoarse, heavy with weakness, but still familiar. My body moved before I could think—I reached for his hand.

“Jordan,” I whispered, pressing his palm between mine. The relief that swept through me was real, and it startled me a little. His skin was warm, alive, not the cold I’d feared I’d one day feel if we lost him. My throat grew tight, but I forced myself to smile down at him, squeezing his hand as if to anchor both of us.

His eyes opened wider, still groggy but enough to recognize me. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, faint but genuine. It was the kind of smile that didn’t need words. He was still here. He’d made it.

I held his gaze for another moment, feeling the heaviness in my chest lift just a little. Then, glancing toward Stella—her expression glowing with joy, her hands clinging to him like she’d never let go—I knew what I had to do. This was their moment. She had waited, prayed, cried, and fought for this. And as much as I wanted to linger in the relief of seeing him awake, I couldn’t intrude.

I let go of his hand gently, my smile still fixed in place though my heart was already retreating to thoughts of Arthur again. “I’ll give you two some time,” I murmured softly, barely more than a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might break the fragile spell of reunion around them.

Without waiting for either of them to protest, I stepped back. My shoes made almost no sound on the floor as I slipped out of the room, but inside me, everything was loud—my worry, my longing, my unanswered questions about Arthur.

And beneath it all, the steady drumbeat of one simple truth: I needed to see him, hear him, know he wa s safe. Until then, I wasn’t sure I could breathe right.