Chapter 133
Grace's POV
I dreamed of Elizabeth standing over Alex's broken body, her cold smile never wavering. In the dream, I tried to run to him, but my feet wouldn't move. I could only watch as she whispered something that made Alex's eyes flutter closed forever.
"No!" I screamed, reaching for him.
But instead of emptiness, I felt warmth. Strong arms encircled me, pulling me against a familiar chest. The scent of cedar and rain filled my senses, and for a moment, I was safe.
"Alex?" I whispered into the dream.
The arms tightened around me, and I felt lips press against my hair. Real. Solid. Protective.
I stirred, caught between sleep and waking, murmuring his name again before consciousness fully returned.
Sunlight streamed through unfamiliar windows. I was in the hotel bed, though I had no memory of moving from the sofa. The sheets smelled faintly of cedar—Alex's cologne—but that was impossible.
I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, panic rising when I saw it was dead. How long have I been asleep?
The bedside clock showed 9:47 AM. I'd been unconscious for nearly twelve hours.
Alex. I need to get back to Alex.
I hurriedly dressed in yesterday's clothes, my hands shaking as I plugged in my phone to charge. When it powered on, missed calls and messages flooded the screen, but I ignored them all. Nothing mattered except getting back to the hospital.
---
When I reached the ground floor, the hotel lobby was bustling with activity. A group of townspeople had gathered near the reception desk, holding a banner that read "Thank You, Hero" in the local language.
A little girl no older than six clutched a handmade card tightly. Her parents stood behind her, their faces glowing with gratitude and hope.
"We came here to thank the man who saved our daughter," the father explained to the hotel manager. "We heard he's staying here."
My heart clenched. They're here for Alex.
Violet appeared from behind, camera at the ready. She'd been documenting the work, playing the perfect role of concerned friend for the media.
"I hope the hero gets better soon," the little girl said to Violet, her voice sweet and innocent. "You two make a beautiful couple. I hope you'll be happy."
The words hit me like a physical blow. The villagers, the media, everyone assumed Violet was Alex's girlfriend. They'd been working together this whole time, and she was playing the perfect picture of a devoted partner.
Violet knelt down to the child's level, her smile enigmatic. "Thank you, sweetheart."
She didn't correct the assumption. Didn't clarify their relationship. Just gracefully and ambiguously accepted the blessing.
I waited in the shadows until her photo session with the little girl ended, then approached.
"Excuse me," I said softly to the little girl who still clutched her card.
She looked at me with curious eyes. "Are you here to see the hero too?"
"Yes, I am." I knelt to her level, offering a gentle smile. "You're the brave little girl he saved, aren't you?"
She nodded shyly, glancing toward Violet for guidance.
The father stepped forward, his expression clearly curious. "And you are?"
I stood slowly, my voice clear and steady. "I'm his wife."
The silence that followed was deafening. Every eye in the lobby turned toward Violet, whose camera suddenly felt heavy in her hands.
"But... but the kind lady didn't deny her relationship with the hero," the little girl interjected, confusion evident in her voice.
Her mother quickly hushed her, but the damage was done.
The silence stretched like a taut wire, ready to snap. Violet's camera hung forgotten in her hands, her carefully constructed narrative crumbling in real time. I could feel every eye in the lobby boring into us, the weight of their collective confusion and curiosity pressing down like a physical force.
Violet's smile flickered, wavering between embarrassment and defiance. She clearly didn't want to concede defeat, not in front of these people who'd been treating her like Alex's devoted partner for days.
"Well," she said, her voice artificially bright, "I suppose there's been some confusion—"
"You're just Alex's work colleague," I cut her off, my voice carrying clearly across the marble lobby. "If there are any unsavory rumors floating around, I'd hate for them to damage your reputation."
I made sure my words reached every corner of the space. The townspeople shifted uncomfortably, their gazes darting between Violet and me like spectators at a tennis match.
Violet's cheeks flushed pink, her grip tightening on her camera strap. I could see the wheels turning behind her eyes, calculating her next move. The warning in my tone was unmistakable, and she was smart enough to recognize it.
A woman doesn't fight for a man unless she doesn't care enough about him to begin with.
The thought seemed to crystallize in her expression. Her shoulders sagged slightly, the fight going out of her posture.
The town representative, an elderly man with weathered hands and kind eyes, stepped forward. His face showed a hint of embarrassment as he approached me apologetically.
"Mrs. Morgan," he said, his voice respectful and apologetic. "Please forgive our mistake. We had no idea—"
The little girl who'd been clutching her handmade card looked up at me with wide, innocent eyes. "You're the hero's wife? Then why has she been the one staying with the big brother all this time?"
Violet jumped at the opening like a lifeline. "Because Miss Wilson is very busy," she said quickly, deliberately emphasizing my surname. "She and Mr. Morgan just got their marriage certificate recently. They haven't even had time to plan a proper wedding yet."
The implication hung in the air like smoke. Where was the devoted wife when her husband was fighting for his life?
I felt the shift in the room's energy immediately. The villagers' expressions grew uncertain, their earlier warmth cooling into something more judgmental. Violet continued, her voice taking on a martyred tone.
"Grace, I was just worried about Alex's condition, so I stayed by his side. That's what caused their misunderstanding," she explained. "I should have been more thoughtful about how things might appear. But these good people are innocent in all this."
Clever. She was painting herself as the selfless victim, the woman who'd sacrificed her reputation for duty while I'd been conspicuously absent.