144. FELIX YEATS (POV)

144. FELIX YEATS (POV)
I take a deep breath. The air comes in, but it doesn’t cleanse. It doesn’t soothe. It only feeds.
“Can you hear me in there?” I ask, without taking my eyes off her. The words come out low, almost colorless. “If you can… give me another sign. Just one more. So that I know you haven’t given up on me.”
The whole room seems to bend with my voice. But Isabelle remains still. Her finger no longer moves. Her body stays motionless.
And for a second—just one—I think maybe I imagined it. That the little movement was just a reflex, an illusion, desperation dressed as hope, the kind of thing men like me shouldn’t feel. But feeling doesn’t stop me from thinking. And thinking is what destroys me.
Her hand is still under mine. Still cold. Still far too light. Her breathing—that same thin line between being and not. My eyes travel across her face, trying to catch any sign: the unmoving lashes, the curve of her lips, the line of her eyebrow. Everything about her seems to rest somewhere between the real world and a limbo I can’t reach.
I bring my fingers to her wrist. I touch it gently. The pulse is there, faint, but steady. That should be enough. But it’s not because Isabelle wasn’t made for silence. Or for absence. She was made to walk ahead of me, challenge me with her eyes, wound me with short words, and pull me back when I was just about to cross the point of no return. She was made to remind me of who I am, not of what I’ve become.
I lean closer to her, my face now near hers. I watch the pattern of her breath. I try to follow it. Match its rhythm. Understand where she is.
“Come back,” I whisper, my mouth almost touching her forehead. “I’m here. You don’t have to run anymore.”
But she doesn’t come back.
Not yet.
I kneel on the floor beside the bed, resting my head on the mattress. The minutes drag by like time itself is broken. Her hand in mine feels like a fragile link between the present and a past that hasn’t yet made up its mind. I think my lungs emptying—each breath a sacrifice between hope and doubt. I hear the doctor return. He enters without me noticing. His steps are light, almost as if he believes he can escape the tension. But he stops in front of me, clipboard in hand.
“Mr. Yeats,” he begins, his voice wrapped in a new kind of caution. “We’ve received the results. We identified a considerable dose of propofol in the patient’s blood—you may know it… It’s a fast-acting anesthetic, used in medical procedures and forced sedation.” He pauses, adjusts his glasses. “The amount administered would induce a coma-like state, with no neurological stimulation. They gave just enough to knock her out and keep her under… not immediately life-threatening, but deep enough to render her completely incapacitated, for hours.”
Propofol. The name echoes inside my head like a diagnosis. My subconscious sums it up: she was drugged, flattened, taken from me by Simon’s massive ego—his need to rip her away from me. My body trembles from the inside. The rage comes from so deep that my fingers clutch the bedsheet.
I press my body against hers again. Rest my face in the palm of her hand.
“What made you rise before was knowing about me, little bunny. Do it again, wake up—I’m here, almost whole for you.”
My voice falters halfway through the sentence. The plea she didn’t hear echoes through my bones:
“Come back.”
A noise at the door catches my attention — Tony is there, visibly worried about Isabelle. He knows better than anyone how much she means to me. Little does he know that, in truth, Isabelle is my world — my whole damn world — lying in that bed, completely drugged by a medication that shouldn’t have done all this. But of course, that scumbag injected a high dose on purpose, to leave her like this.
I don’t move.
The door’s still open behind me, Tony waiting. But my hand remains locked in hers. Her body—still warm, still here—is the only thing keeping the ground steady beneath my feet. And that’s enough for me to understand: I’m not leaving this room.
“She’ll need me here when she wakes up,” I say, without taking my eyes off her.
The doctor hesitates. I notice. He shifts his shoulders and adjusts the clipboard under his arm. That kind of body language irritates me—people circling around something simple.
“Is there a way to reverse the drug’s effect?” My voice comes out low but firm. “Can we speed this up?”
He takes a deep breath, like he knows any wrong answer could cost more than just his career.
“There is an antidote. But it’s not straightforward. Propofol doesn’t have a direct antagonist like other drugs. What we do is supportive care. Keep her blood pressure stable, monitor heart rate, maintain oxygen… and wait for the body to respond on its own.”
“That’s not good enough.” The words come out sharp, hard.
“We can try to reduce the time with sensory stimulation. Light. Sound. Direct contact. But it’ll all depend on her.”
I look at her again. Her skin is still cold. Her eyelids don’t even twitch. Her chest rises and falls automatically. But I’m here. And that doesn’t change.
“Then let’s do that,” I say. “Whatever we can. But I’m staying. No one takes her from me. Not even for a minute.”
The doctor nods, already backing away, respecting the space.
I close the door.
And sit back down.
My hand in hers.
The decision is made. I’m not leaving. Not even if the building catches fire.
The doctor steps back without questioning it. He understands. There’s no room for rebuttal when my voice carries that weight. The clipboard slips from his hands, landing on the chair beside him. He gives quiet instructions to the nurse, who walks in seconds later without looking directly at me.
The tone of the room shifts. The light, once warm, grows brighter. A sharper beam is directed at her face. Isabelle’s skin, nearly translucent under the light, looks even more fragile. The nurse adjusts the sensors and gently pulls back the sheet. I avoid looking at the mark on her thigh, but I know it’s there—etched into her skin like a filthy reminder of what they did.
“We’ll begin the stimulation,” the doctor says. “Light in the eyes, direct touch, auditory input. She may respond to one, to all… or to none.”
I don’t answer.
I squeeze her hand tighter. Bring my lips close to her ear.
“If you’re in there, listen to me. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
The nurse wipes Isabelle’s forehead with a damp cloth. The doctor shines a direct light into her eyes. No reaction.
“Isabelle,” I call softly. “Wake up. Now’s not the time to run.”
Her chest rises. Falls. And for a second—just one—her hand seems to move under mine.
I look straight at her face.
And that’s when the eyelid twitches.
Just once.