Chapter 201: I Need to Take Responsibility for You

Tara’s POV

I stood in the hospital corridor outside the ICU, studying Luke's face under the harsh fluorescent lights. Exhaustion was etched across his features, shadows forming beneath his eyes. We were both drained—he from rushing over after hearing about Finn, and I from hours of fighting for my student's life on the operating table.

"Someone tried to frame Finn, hoping to use me to eliminate him," I said, my words nearly drowned out by the steady beeping of medical equipment from nearby rooms. My fingers felt stiff from hours of gripping surgical instruments, my mind still replaying the moment I'd seen the gunshot wound in Finn's chest.

Luke's gaze sharpened, his jaw tensing. "Whoever it is, I'll help you find them. Anyone who dares manipulate you won't escape."

A flicker of warmth momentarily surged through me at his words. I immediately suppressed it.

Here we were again in our familiar pattern: me pushing him away, him refusing to leave.

"This doesn't concern you," I forced myself to say coldly. "Don't involve yourself in matters that aren't your business."

Rather than retreating, Luke moved his wheelchair closer. His eyes fixed on me with that steadfast intensity that always left me both comforted and unsettled.

"Tara, someone is hurting people you care about. Let me help you."

Fatigue made me speak before I could filter my words. "What can you do? You're in a wheelchair. You can barely protect yourself. What can you offer besides being another burden?"

The moment the words left my mouth, I wanted to take them back. I saw the pain flash across Luke's face before his expression hardened.

"Tara," he said quietly, "don't say things you don't mean. I'm not the same person I was before. I know you better now. I know when you're lying."

"You should be concerned about that girl from the other night," I said, deliberately studying my fingernails rather than meeting his eyes. "The one who helped detoxify you."

Luke went completely still. "What about her?"

"I investigated her background," I said, weaving the lie with practiced ease. "She's quite pitiful, really. The reason she sold herself that night was because she desperately needed money for her grandmother's medical treatment."

I let those words sink in before continuing, "It was her first time. While I've already given her a considerable sum, I still think you should take responsibility for her. Good, pure girls like her are really rare these days."

Luke's eyes never left my face. "You want me to take responsibility for... another woman?" His voice dangerously low.

"Why not? She deserves it after what happened."

"I know the truth about that night, Tara," he said abruptly. "I know it was you who was with me."

My carefully constructed lie shattered instantly, leaving me momentarily speechless. How did he know? I had been so careful. The realization that he had seen through my deception made my heart beat uncomfortably fast.

I quickly regained my composure, lifting my chin. "Even if it was me, so what? You've already taken responsibility for me once. Three years of marriage—we've been through everything we needed to. Whatever was between us, Luke, it's in the past now."

The silence that followed felt heavy, filled with unspoken words. Finally, Luke nodded slightly.

"I understand," he said, turning his wheelchair toward the elevator. "I'll let you take care of Finn."

I watched him leave, fighting the sudden, unexpected urge to call him back. When the elevator doors closed behind him, a strange emptiness spread through my chest. I told myself it was relief—success at once again keeping him away from the chaos that followed me everywhere.

Then why did it feel so much like loss?

My attention returned to the ICU. Finn needed me now, and this time, I wouldn't fail him.

\---

The ICU monitors beeped in steady rhythm. The ventilator whooshed with artificial breaths. Finn lay motionless on the bed, tubes and wires extending from his body like strange appendages. I had never seen him so vulnerable, so completely still.

I had spent hours staring through the glass wall, mentally calculating every blip on the monitors.

Four hours post-surgery, and Finn still showed no signs of regaining consciousness. The first twenty-four hours were critical, though. If he remained unconscious throughout this window, his chances of recovery would diminish significantly.

I paced the corridor, unable to remain still. Every minute that passed without improvement added to my guilt with each step.

The attending physician completed his rounds, and I immediately intercepted him.

"Any changes?" I asked, though the monitors had already told me the answer.

"He's stable, Dr. Taylor," he replied, "but still unresponsive. The next few hours will be crucial."

I nodded. "I want to sit with him."

"Of course. Given your medical background, we can make an exception to the standard visitation restrictions."

Minutes later, I entered Finn's room, clad in sterile scrubs with a mask covering half my face. The machines seemed louder inside, each beep and hiss a reminder of how close I had come to losing him. I pulled a chair close to his bedside and took his hand in mine. His skin felt cold, lacking the warmth that always radiated from him.

"I know you can hear me, Finn," I said, my voice sounding foreign even to my own ears. "You need to wake up now. We have work to do."

His face remained perfectly still, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with the ventilator breathing for him.

"It was almost certainly the same person who poisoned you before," I continued, leaning forward, staring at his closed eyelids as if I could will them to open. "Are you really going to let them get away with this? Wake up so we can find them together."

Nothing. No twitch, no flicker. The monitors continued their steady rhythm, indifferent to my growing desperation.

"Or... perhaps you truly don't want me as your master anymore?" My voice caught. "You're still my student, Finn. You always will be. What I said that day—I was angry, I didn't mean it. How could I possibly let you go?"

"Please wake up. I'm begging you. Your master is begging you."

Hours passed, my words evolving from pleas to threats, from clinical observations to quiet reminiscences of our early days together. I talked about the first time we met, the day I decided to take him as my student, our first successful formula development. Still, Finn remained unresponsive.

\---

The next morning, half-dozing in the uncomfortable hospital chair, I was jolted awake by a change in the monitors' rhythm. My eyes flew open to see Finn's eyelids fluttering, his fingers twitching in the hand I'd held all night.

I lunged for the call button, my heart slamming against my ribs. "Finn? Can you hear me?" I leaned close to him, searching his face for any reaction.

His eyes opened slowly, blinking several times against the harsh fluorescent lights. For one perfect moment, I felt relief flood through me—he was awake, he would recover, everything would be alright.

Then his gaze fixed on my face. There was no warmth in his eyes, no recognition—only the wary confusion people reserve for strangers.

"Finn?" I tried again, keeping my voice gentle. "How do you feel?"

His brow furrowed as he studied me, as if trying to place my face in his memory and coming up empty. "Who are you?" His voice was rough from intubation, but the question was unmistakable.

I forced myself to smile, certain he was playing some cruel joke. "Very funny, brat. Even if you're angry with me, now isn't the time for jokes."

The confusion in his eyes only deepened. "I'm not joking. I don't know you." He pulled his hand from mine. "Why would I joke with a stranger?"

The medical team arrived then, breaking the terrible moment. I instinctively stepped back, my mind racing to understand what was happening. I watched as they checked his responses, noting how he answered their questions with perfect clarity. His cognitive functions seemed intact, but he had no idea who I was.

When the doctors stepped away, I pulled the attending physician into the hallway. "His cognitive functions seem normal, but he doesn't recognize me. Could this be related to trauma or anesthesia?"

The doctor considered before answering. "This appears more like dissociative amnesia—a psychological response to severe trauma. His brain has specifically blocked memories or people associated with the traumatic event. If you were connected to the trigger for this trauma..."

Our argument, my accusations, severing our master-student relationship—all of it had hurt him so deeply that his mind had completely erased me to protect itself.

The following days confirmed my fears. Finn remembered everything about his life—his background, his skills, even recent events—except anything related to me. It was as if his brain had performed a perfect surgery, excising me from his memory while leaving everything else intact.

I tried countless approaches—changing my appearance, mentioning specific moments from our shared past, even bringing equipment from our laboratory once. Nothing worked.

"I'm sorry, but I really don't know you," he would say, eyeing me with increasing wariness. "Why do you keep coming here?"