Chapter 15 #15

Chapter 15 #15
Chapter 15

~ Dwayne ~

I'd always known Dante was a fool, but today had proven just how monumentally stupid my brother could be. The entire sequence of events—from Shailyn's collapse to the frantic rush to the hospital—had played out like some twisted tragedy where the villain was too blind to see his own hand in the destruction.

As I'd carried myself through those chaotic moments, watching the staff swarm around Shailyn's unconscious body, watching the blood spread across those pristine white tiles, I'd felt something unexpected stir in my chest.

Sympathy. Genuine sympathy for this young woman who seemed to carry the weight of the entire world on her narrow shoulders.

I barely knew her. We'd exchanged maybe a handful of words since I'd returned to Kington. That brief encounter in the mall when I'd knocked the ginseng bottle from her hands. The moment at dinner when she'd looked at me with those wide, startled eyes. The incident in the hallway when I'd caught her before she fell, my hands on her waist, her body fitting against mine in a way that felt strangely, unsettlingly familiar.

But despite our limited interactions, I could see what my brother had done to her. Could see it in the way she flinched when Dante raised his voice. In the way she made herself smaller, quieter, like she was trying to disappear entirely. In the haunted look that lived permanently in her eyes.

My brother had broken this woman. Systematically. Deliberately. And he was too much of a selfish bastard to even realize or care about the damage he'd caused.

Now, hearing that she might wake up with amnesia, I felt a complicated tangle of emotions I couldn't quite name. Sadness, certainly. How terrifying would it be to wake up in a hospital bed with gaps in your memory, surrounded by people who claimed to know you but felt like strangers?

But underneath the sadness was something else. Something that felt almost like... hope?

If Shailyn couldn't remember the past five years, couldn't remember Dante's abuse and manipulation, maybe she'd have a chance to become someone different. Someone stronger. Someone who wouldn't let my brother destroy her piece by piece.

Or maybe I was just projecting. Maybe I was hoping she'd forget Dante entirely so I could, 

I cut that thought off before it could fully form. Dangerous territory. She was still my brother's wife, regardless of how I felt about that particular fact.

I wondered what Dante had put her through. What daily humiliations and cruelties had accumulated over five years to reduce a brilliant, first-class computer science graduate to the timid, broken woman I'd witnessed at dinner that first night.

The doctor had pulled Dante and my father aside for a private conversation. I stood back, giving them space but staying close enough to hear if anything important was said. That's when my phone buzzed in my pocket.

I pulled it out, already knowing who it was before I checked the screen.

Marcus. My private investigator. The best in the business, with connections in every corner of Kington City and beyond.

His message was brief and infuriatingly familiar: Nothing. Dead end on the mask club lead. Will keep looking.

Frustration crashed over me like a wave. I'd hired Marcus days ago, immediately after that night at the club—and tasked him with one simple job: find the woman from the mask party. The mysterious, intoxicating woman who'd somehow managed to burrow under my skin and take up permanent residence in my thoughts.

But despite Marcus's reputation, despite his vast network of contacts and sources, despite the frankly obscene amount of money I was paying him—nothing. It was as if my beautiful vixen had simply vanished into thin air, leaving behind nothing but the memory of her touch and the faint, haunting scent of her perfume on my clothes.

I'd spent every night since then thinking about her. Replaying our encounter in my mind with obsessive detail. The way she'd grabbed me and pulled me close, that initial hesitation melting into desperate need. The sounds she'd made. The way her body had responded to mine like we'd been made to fit together. The way she'd felt so impossibly, inexplicably familiar, like I'd known her for years instead of hours.

And then she'd vanished. Gone before I'd woken up, leaving behind nothing but rumpled sheets and a thousand unanswered questions.

Who was she? Why had she seemed so sad underneath the desire? Why had her touch felt like coming home to a place I'd never been?

And why the fuck couldn't I stop thinking about her?

I slipped my phone back into my pocket with more force than necessary. This was becoming an obsession—an unhealthy one. I had more important things to focus on. The company. The competition with Dante. Proving myself worthy of the chairman position my father had dangled in front of us like a prize.

But none of that mattered as much as finding her.

She might not know it yet, but that woman was mine. Mine in a way that transcended logic or reason. Mine in a way I'd never felt about anyone before.

And I would find her. No matter how long it took. No matter what resources I had to expend.

She was mine, and I always claimed what was mine.

…

The days that followed blurred together in a monotonous cycle of work and waiting.

The office felt different now, heavier somehow, like Shailyn's absence had created a void that couldn't be filled. Hannah moped around their shared desk area, her usual bubbly energy dampened into something sad and subdued. Other employees whispered in corners, spreading rumors and speculation about what had really happened.

And Dante…fucking Dante, spent his time moping around the executive floor like some tragic figure from a Victorian novel. As if he hadn't caused this entire disaster with his cruelty and carelessness.

Though I had to admit, he did take action against Vanessa. I'd heard through the corporate grapevine that he'd had her fired within hours of Shailyn's collapse. Not just fired — destroyed. Her employment contract terminated with cause, her professional reputation obliterated with a few well-placed phone calls, her name blacklisted from every major tech company in Kington.

It was vicious and thorough, exactly the kind of calculated revenge Dante excelled at.

But it didn't erase anything. Didn't undo the damage that had been done. Didn't bring Shailyn back from wherever her mind had retreated to in that hospital bed.

For someone who'd almost killed his wife, Dante looked appropriately miserable. Good. The bastard deserved to suffer.

Though part of me wondered if his suffering came from genuine remorse or just from the fear of losing control over his favorite possession.

Then, finally, on the third day—just as the doctor had predicted—we got the call.

Dante's phone rang during a board meeting, and I watched his face transform as he listened to whoever was on the other end. Relief, hope, fear—all of it flashing across his features in rapid succession.

"She's awake," he said, his voice rough. "Shailyn's awake."

The meeting dissolved immediately. My father didn't even bother with a formal adjournment—just wheeled himself toward the exit with his assistant scrambling to keep up. 

Dante was already running for the elevator, his usual composure completely abandoned.

I followed at a more measured pace, my heart rate picking up despite my attempts to remain calm. This was good news. Shailyn was awake and presumably stable enough to receive visitors.

But the question remained: what would she remember? Who would she be when she opened her eyes?

We took separate cars to the hospital—Dante in his sleek black Mercedes, my father in the company car with his assistant, and me in my own vehicle. None of us needed each other's presence for this. We just all wanted to see how Shailyn was holding up, to confirm with our own eyes that she'd survived.

Though our motivations for that concern were probably vastly different.

The drive felt interminable. Traffic conspired against us at every turn, red lights stretching longer than usual, other drivers moving with infuriating slowness. My fingers drummed against the steering wheel as I waited, impatient and anxious in ways I didn't fully understand.

When I finally pulled into the hospital parking garage, I could see Dante's car already there, parked at a reckless angle like he'd abandoned it in his haste. My father's car was pulling in just ahead of me.

We converged at the elevator—a tense, silent trio united only by our destination. The ride up to Shailyn's floor felt like it took hours instead of seconds. The hallway stretched endlessly before us, our footsteps echoing off the sterile walls.

And then we were there. Room 347. Shailyn's room.

Dante didn't knock, he just grabbed the handle and burst through the door like he owned the place — which, in his mind, he probably did.

My father and I followed more slowly, giving Dante his moment while simultaneously wanting to see this reunion for ourselves.

Shailyn was sitting up in the hospital bed, looking small and pale against the white sheets. Her dark hair was tangled around her shoulders, and there were dark circles under her eyes that spoke of exhaustion and trauma. But she was awake. Alert. Her eyes tracked Dante's movement as he rushed toward her bedside.

"Shailyn," Dante breathed, reaching for her hand. "Thank God. I was so worried. You have no idea…"

And then she spoke. Just three simple words that stopped Dante dead in his tracks and sent a shock wave through the entire room.

"Who are you?"