Wake Up, Please

Wake Up, Please
Damien’s POV

“Who the hell is that?” I asked rather harshly.

“Her parents… Isabella’s parents are here to see her,” Agnes replied. 

Agnes stood in the doorway, eyes swollen, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. I felt angry at myself seeing her and the expression on her face. I haven’t even comforted her…or told her not to blame herself.

What would Isabella think of that when she wakes up?

I stood up immediately and tried my best to make myself presentable, all grumpiness gone. My in-laws are here. I shouldn’t scare them off with how I look. 

Mr. and Mrs. Barnes cautiously entered the room. Isabella’s mom looked like she instantly aged ten years as soon as she saw her daughter on the bed. She broke into tears and ran toward her daughter’s side. Her father looked stiff, jaw locked so tight I could see the muscle jumping.

Mrs Barnes hands were shaking as she reached out and smooth Isabella’s hair back from her forehead.

“Oh, baby girl…what have they done to you?”

Meanwhile, the father hung back and blinked back tears. When our eyes met, he nodded at me once…tight, controlled.

Agnes didn’t hesitate. The moment she saw her opening…the one she’d been praying for and I didn’t let her have…she moved.

She crossed to the other side of the bed, sank into the spare chair, and gently took Isabella’s free hand in hers.

I stayed where I was.

Rooted.

My legs were numb. My back throbbed from days spent standing in the same place, afraid that if I sat down, I wouldn’t be able to get back up.

“Agnes…” Mrs. Barnes’s voice broke before she even finished the first word. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner? What did the doctors say? When is my baby going to wake up?”

Agnes lifted her head then…straight to me…waiting for me to answer them.

Mrs. Barnes followed her gaze.

That was when she noticed me. Really noticed me.

Her eyes paused, sharpened, took me in like a stranger who didn’t belong in a room built on grief.

“And who is this young man?” she asked, turning back to Agnes.

Agnes cleared her throat, but before she could speak, I stepped forward.

“Mr. and Mrs. Barnes,” I said, my voice stiff, controlled…too controlled. “Please allow me to introduce myself.”

I sounded like I was at a job interview.

Which, in a way, I was. Because I was looking for a position in their daughter’s life.

“My name is Damien—” I stopped myself. Saying more in front of Agnes felt wrong. Exposed. “Please,” I continued quietly. “I need to speak to you both. Outside. If you don’t mind.”

Mrs. Barnes studied me again. This time, properly.

She must have seen it…the bloodshot eyes, the tremor I couldn’t hide, the way I was barely holding myself together by sheer force of will.

After a moment, she nodded and reached for her husband’s arm.

I led them into the hallway. The door closed behind us with a soft, final click.

The corridor was empty, except for two of my men leaning against the far wall, twenty feet away, pretending they weren’t listening.

Carlos was still out there.

I couldn’t afford surprises.

I turned to face them. No rehearsed speech. No excuses.

I bowed my head slightly. “I failed her,” I said.

The words came out rough, scraped raw from my throat. “I knew it was dangerous for her to leave. I knew my enemy would come for her eventually. I let her believe she was safe. I let her walk out of my house without the protection she needed.”

I swallowed. “She was my responsibility. And I failed her.”

Mrs. Barnes’s mouth tightened.

The anger came first…sharp, instinctive, maternal. “And who are you,” she snapped, “to decide that my daughter is your responsibility? Who are you to her?”

I didn’t hesitate. I told them everything.

The kidnapping. The lies. The control. The obsession. The chaos. Up until the moment she was lying unconscious in that bed, fighting for her life.

When I finished, Mr. Barnes didn’t say a word.

He just swung. His fist connected with my mouth, splitting my lip. I tasted blood instantly.

I didn’t move. Didn’t complain. Didn’t even blink. I deserved it.

Because who looks a parent in the eye and admits he once kidnapped their daughter and tied her to his bed?

Me. Obviously.

“So you’re telling me,” Mr. Barnes roared, lunging again as his wife grabbed his arm, “that my daughter is lying in there instead of being safe at home because you wanted to live out some sick action-movie fantasy with her?”

I stayed still. Let their anger crash into me.

“I deserve every bit of it,” I said. “Your rage. Your hatred. I’ll carry this failure for the rest of my life. But you need to hear the rest.”

And I told them.

Not the clean version.

I told them how I met Isabella. How I lost her before I ever truly knew her. How I found her again…and hurt her before I ever loved her. How I spent weeks tearing myself apart, trying to claw my way back to something she might forgive.

I told them I wasn’t asking for forgiveness.

I was asking for a chance. A chance to do better.

To protect her. To give her a life that didn’t revolve around fear and bloodshed. To give her more than the chaos I dragged her into.

They listened. Faces shifting…anger, confusion, reluctant understanding, then anger again when I admitted I tried to solve everything with money and power instead of simply keeping her hidden from the world.

Her father said nothing. Just watched me. Measured me like I was a problem he was trying to solve.

When I finished, the silence stretched until it felt unbearable.

Then Mrs. Barnes exhaled…a long, shaky breath.

“You love her,” she said.

Not a question…. More like a conclusion.

“More than anything,” I answered.

She turned toward the door. Toward where her daughter was.

“I don’t trust easily,” she said quietly. “Especially not men with private jets and armed security. I learned that lesson the hard way. Isabella’s biological father was one.”

Her voice cracked.

“He left us. Like a coward to follow his multiple mistresses and he died doing what he loved doing most. Chasing after women.”

It clicked then. The man beside her wasn’t Isabella’s biological father.

I hadn’t even known that much about the woman I claim to love.

“But I trust my daughter’s judgment,” Mrs. Barnes continued. “And she chose you. Again and again. Even when it hurt her. That tells me she feels the same way you do.”

She wiped at her eyes. “And her happiness comes first. So I’ll let you prove that you can take care of her.”

I hadn’t even found the words to thank her when her husband finally spoke.

His voice was low. Dangerous. “If you hurt her again…ever…I don’t care how much money you have. I will bury you myself.”

I met his gaze without flinching. “Understood. I will never make her cry again. I swear it.”

Mrs. Barnes reached for me. Hesitated. Then squeezed my forearm…brief, firm.

“We’re not okay,” she said. “But… we’re willing to see you try.”

Relief hit me hard…sharp and dizzy, like a drug finally kicking in. I nodded too many times, unable to stop myself.

Minutes later, we went back inside.

Agnes was curled against Isabella’s side, whispering something I couldn’t hear.

Ellie was there too…I hadn’t even noticed when she came in. She sat on the windowsill, phone in hand, eyes red, pretending to scroll.

And for the first time since this nightmare began, the room didn’t feel quite as heavy.

Not yet healed. But no longer hopeless.

Mrs. Barnes crossed to the bed and brushed Isabella’s cheek while her father stopped at the foot, arms folded, watching like a sentinel.

I moved to the chair again. But before I sat down, I leaned over Isabella and pressed my lips to her temple.

“Come on, baby,” I murmured against her skin. “Your mom’s here. Your dad just threatened to kill me. Agnes is threatening to haunt you if you don’t wake up. You really gonna miss all this drama?”

Nothing.

I settled back, took her hand again.

And waited.

Because that’s all I can do.

Wait.

And pray she hears me.