Chapter 172

Chapter 172
Willow's POV

"Mr. Wilder needs his rest," she announced firmly, checking one of his monitors with concern. "His oxygen levels are dropping. You can return this afternoon."

We gathered our things, promising Beckeet we'd be back later. As the others headed out, he managed to catch my hand with surprising strength.

"Wild," he whispered, his voice now barely audible. "You... Can you... forgive me?"

The question hung between us, heavy with everything that had happened. I felt a knot form in my throat as conflicting emotions crashed through me. This was the man who'd conspired with Chloe behind my back, who'd helped spread those vicious rumors about Wildfire. Yet he was also the same person who'd thrown himself in front of a bullet meant for me.

I studied his pale face, the pain evident in his eyes—not just physical pain, but the weight of guilt. Part of me wanted to hold onto the anger, to make him understand how deeply his betrayal had cut. But another part remembered the moment he'd fallen, blood blooming across his chest as he collapsed in my arms.

"I'm trying to understand why," I said finally, my voice low. "You worked with Chloe to hurt me, Beckeet. After everything we've been through."

"She convinced me..." he struggled to speak, "that if Wildfire was gone... if you lost your... support system... you'd come back... to me." Shame crossed his features. "Thought if you were... alone again... you'd need me. So stupid..."

I took a deep breath, my thoughts drifting not to our shared past, but to another night at Sunset—when Damian had stepped between me and a group of drunk patrons who wouldn't take no for an answer. I'd never seen that fierce protectiveness in his eyes before, the way he'd positioned himself as a shield without hesitation.

"You took a bullet for me," I said softly. "That counts for something."

"Doesn't... erase what I did."

"No, it doesn't," I agreed, gently squeezing his hand. "But it tells me who you really are when it matters most." I blinked back tears. "I forgive you, Beckeet. Now focus on healing. We've got plenty of time to figure out the rest."

Relief washed over his face, and he nodded weakly before his eyelids began to droop with exhaustion.

In the hallway, I found Damian waiting, leaning against the wall in that effortlessly elegant way of his. Despite having presumably been at the hospital all night, he looked immaculate in a fresh suit.

"How is he?" Damian asked, falling into step beside me as the others continued toward the cafeteria.

"Not good," I admitted. "The doctors say he'll recover eventually, but it's going to be a long road."

Damian nodded solemnly. "I've arranged for the best thoracic specialists to consult on his case. Dr. Mendelson from Johns Hopkins is flying in this afternoon."

I glanced at him, surprised. "You did?"

"Of course." His expression revealed nothing. "He saved your life, Willow. I owe him that much."

We walked in silence for a moment.

"The others are discussing buying the club," I said. "Rebuilding it together."

"An admirable idea. Though perhaps not the most financially sound one, given the current real estate market."

"Not everything is about sound financial decisions," I pointed out.

"True." He guided me toward a small garden courtyard in the center of the hospital complex. Once we were alone among the carefully tended plants, he turned to face me. "Willow, there's something I need to discuss with you."

I braced myself, sensing whatever was coming wasn't going to be simple.

"I've already set plans in motion to rebuild Sunset," he said. "The architects will have preliminary designs ready by next week, and construction can begin as soon as the site is cleared."

"That's... fast," I said, surprised by the efficiency despite knowing I shouldn't be.

"The insurance claim is being expedited. And I've instructed HR to prepare settlement packages for all employees affected by the fire," he continued. "Everyone will receive generous compensation, and we're arranging temporary positions at our other venues for anyone who wants them."

"What about Carlos? She's been through so much because of me."

"I've arranged a substantial compensation package for her," he said without hesitation. "She was targeted specifically because of her connection to you. The emotional trauma and professional disruption she's experienced deserves recognition, beyond what standard insurance would cover."

I leaned against a nearby planter, taking this in. "You've thought of everything."

"It's what I do," he said simply.

There was something both reassuring and unsettling about his efficiency—how he could rearrange the world with a few phone calls, smooth out any wrinkle in the fabric of his universe.

"The others were serious about buying the place," I said. "They want to be owners, not just employees."

Damian considered this. "We could structure a partnership arrangement. They'd have equity stakes, decision-making authority for the venue's operation. Blackwood Global would maintain property ownership but limit involvement to financial backing."

The fact that he was willing to consider it surprised me. "You'd do that?"

"If it's what you want." His eyes held mine. "Their loyalty to you is... admirable. I understand wanting to honor that."

Something in his tone made me realize this conversation was about more than just the club. Before I could respond, Damian took a step closer.

"There's something else we need to discuss, Willow," he said, his voice softening. "About Beckeet."

My stomach tightened. "What about him?"

"I heard what he said to you in the warehouse. About his feelings." Damian's eyes held mine, searching. "And I saw how you reacted."

I swallowed hard. "Damian..."

"I'm not accusing you of anything," he said quickly. "But I need clarity. After everything we've been through... everything we've meant to each other... I need to know where I stand."

The directness of his question caught me off guard. How could I explain the complicated tangle of emotions inside me? How Beckeet had been my friend—my best friend—for years before Damian entered my life? How his confession had stirred something I hadn't known was there? And yet, how my feelings for Damian had grown deeper, more complex than I'd ever imagined possible?

"I don't know," I admitted finally. "Beckeet is important to me. He's been there through everything. But what I feel for you..."

I trailed off, unable to find words adequate to describe the intensity of what had developed between Damian and me.

"I understand the complexity," he said softly. "But eventually, Willow, you'll need to choose. For your own sake, if nothing else."

As he spoke, a strange sensation washed over me—a sudden lightheadedness followed by a rolling queasiness in my stomach. The scent of the garden flowers, which had seemed pleasant moments ago, now felt overpowering, cloying.

"Willow?" Damian's voice sounded distant. "Are you alright? You've gone pale."

I pressed a hand to my stomach, willing the sudden nausea to pass. "I'm fine," I managed. "Just haven't eaten much today."

But even as I said it, another wave hit me stronger than before. The nausea intensified, and I found myself desperately looking around for somewhere to—

"I need to—" I didn't finish the sentence before lurching toward a nearby trash can, barely making it in time as my body betrayed me. I was dimly aware of Damian beside me, holding my hair back with one hand, the other steadying at my waist.

When the spell passed, I straightened shakily, mortified and confused. "I'm sorry," I whispered, accepting the handkerchief he offered. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

But as I wiped my mouth, a realization dawned, sending a jolt of shock through my system. When was my last period? With everything that had happened—Chloe's schemes, the warehouse, Beckeet's shooting—I'd completely lost track of time.

I looked up to find Damian watching me closely, his expression shifting from concern to dawning comprehension as he read something in my face.

"Willow," he said quietly. "Is there something you're not telling me?"