Chapter 42: The Line You Shouldn’t Cross
“Come sit here,” Lorenzo said, patting the side of the bed. His tone wasn’t a request; it was a command wrapped in silk.
He looked different sitting there, the loose white hospital shirt half-open across his chest, the bandage blooming faintly pink beneath it. The low light caught on the stubble across his jaw, turning him into something dangerous and heartbreakingly human all at once.
I didn’t move. “No. Say whatever you want to say so I can leave.”
He tilted his head, studying me. “You really don’t care, do you? I was shot, Isla.”
“You were moving your shoulder just fine a while ago,” I said sharply, trying to bury the tremor in my voice.
He gave a faint smirk, though his eyes stayed on mine. “I do feel pain. I’m not a superhuman. Is that how you treat your patients?”
“You’re not my patient,” I snapped. “You’re a monster. A murderer.”
Something flickered in his eyes, not anger, but something quieter. The kind of wound that cut deeper than bullets.
He breathed out, slow. “You’re hurting my feelings, Nurse Isla.” Then, his tone turned mocking. “Tell me, what do you even see in him?”
I glared at him. “If you don’t have anything else to say, I’ll take my leave.”
I turned toward the door, my sneakers squeaking softly against the tile, my heart slamming against my ribs.
His voice stopped me cold.
“Should I tell my men to get rid of that so-called friend of yours?”
His tone was casual. Almost bored. “He’s getting on my nerves.”
My body froze.
The sound of my own breath filled the silence, ragged and uneven.
He could do it.
He would.
I turned slowly, my voice barely a whisper. “Don’t you dare touch Raymond.”
His eyes narrowed, a dark amusement curling at the edges of his lips. “Do you prefer guys with green eyes?”
I hated him then, truly hated him, because he knew exactly what to say to make me unravel. Because somehow, even standing there trembling, I couldn’t tell if I wanted to scream or cry or throw something at him.
\---
I left before he could say anything else.
The door clicked shut behind me, the echo sharp enough to cut.
The hallway outside felt colder than it should have. The faint hum of lights, the shuffle of nurses’ shoes, the smell of disinfectant, everything normal, ordinary, but it all felt like another world compared to the chaos in my chest.
By the time I reached Raymond’s office, my palms were damp, and I could barely breathe.
The door was half-open. I pushed it gently.
He was sitting at his desk, head bowed, one hand pressed against his temple. His green eyes, the same ones that used to calm me, were dark now, distant, unreadable. A shadow passed over his face when he heard me step in.
“Raymond…” I began softly.
He didn’t look up. “Is he also the reason you were able to write the exam?”
The question landed like a stone.
Heavy. Unforgiving.
My throat tightened. “I was going to tell you…”
He looked up then, eyes sharp with something between pain and disbelief. “You were going to tell me? When, Isla? After I made a fool of myself defending you? After I almost hit the man who…”
He stopped, his voice cracking before he forced it steady. “He owns this hospital. And you knew, didn’t you?”
I stared at the floor, words failing me. The silence stretched, brittle and cruel. “No I just found out just now too…”
Raymond stood slowly. The light caught on his white coat, but it was wrinkled, his sleeves pushed up, his tie loose. He looked tired, not just from the night, but from carrying too much.
“I trusted you,” he said quietly. “But every time I think I understand you, I realize you’ve been living in a different world.”
I lifted my head, tears burning behind my eyes. “You don’t understand, Raymond. I didn’t choose this.”
“Then why does it look like you did?” His voice broke again, softer this time. “He looks at you like he owns you.”
I shook my head. “No… He doesn’t.”
But even as I said it, my wrist still burned where Lorenzo’s fingers had been. The ghost of his touch lingered like a mark I couldn’t wash away.
Raymond leaned against his desk, crossing his arms. “You know what kind of man he is, right? What is he capable of?”
I swallowed hard. “I do.”
“Then why haven’t you run?”
The question hit harder than any accusation.
Because I didn’t have an answer. Because a part of me, twisted and small, didn’t want to run. Because some awful, broken piece of me still remembered his eyes that night at the lake — the man I saved, not the monster he became.
The silence between us thickened.
Finally, Raymond sighed, looking down. “You can’t keep doing this. If he’s threatening me, I’ll report it.”
“Don’t,” I said quickly, stepping closer. “Please, Raymond, don’t do that.”
His eyes lifted to mine. “Why? Because you’re protecting him?”
“Because it’ll make things worse,” I whispered. “You don’t understand how far he’ll go.”
Raymond’s voice hardened. “You think I’m scared of him?”
“I am,” I said, my voice trembling. “And that should be enough.”
The air between us was still, heavy with everything we weren’t saying. He studied me for a long time, the kind of look that feels like goodbye before it’s even said.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. “He’s already changing you.”
Then he brushed past me and left the office.
\---
The air felt colder once he was gone.
I leaned against the wall, my knees weak. The muffled sounds of the hospital faded into background noise, a nurse’s laugh down the hall, the distant roll of a gurney, the faint buzz of the intercom, all of it fading into static.
My reflection stared back at me from the glass panel in the door: tired eyes, trembling hands, hair falling out of place. I looked like someone I didn’t recognize.
A nurse passed by and gave me a polite nod. “You okay, Miss Monroe?”
I forced a small smile. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
But I wasn’t.
\---
Outside the hospital, the night had fallen heavy and dark. The rain from earlier still clung to the pavement, glistening beneath the streetlights like spilled mercury.
I pulled my coat tighter around me, the chill biting through the thin fabric.
The sound of a car door closing made me turn.
A black car idled near the curb, sleek, tinted, unmistakably his. The driver stood beside it, holding the rear door open.
“Miss Monroe,” he said politely. “Mr. De Luca asked me to take you home.”
“I’ll walk,” I said quickly.
“I’m afraid he insisted,” the man replied, his voice void of emotion. “It’s not safe for you to be alone tonight.”
I wanted to argue, but the look in his eyes, that unreadable calm, told me it wouldn’t matter. These men didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Not when the order came from Lorenzo De Luca.
So I got in.
The leather seats were cold, the scent of his cologne faint but unmistakable, cedar, smoke, and something darker. My hands trembled in my lap as the car pulled away from the hospital.
City lights streaked across the window, turning the rain into ribbons of silver. My mind raced, replaying every word, every look, every warning.
What if he really hurt Raymond?
What if this was how it started, not with bullets, but with slow, silent control?
I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to steady my breathing.
When we stopped, I realized with a jolt, this wasn’t my apartment.
The driver stepped out and opened my door.
“Where are we?” I asked, voice thin.
“Someone asked to see you before you return home.”
My stomach twisted. “No. I’m not…”
But before I could finish, I saw him.