Chapter 168 Why do I care?
~Hermes~
They pried the elevator doors open just as her body went limp in my arms.
I didn’t even remember shouting for help again. I didn’t remember the fire team arriving, or the metal groaning as they forced it open. All I remember is the moment her eyes rolled back, her fingers slipping from my shirt, and the way something inside me snapped when I felt her go still.
They rushed in—voices, lights, hands—all of it too loud, fast, and useless.
"Ma’am? Ma’am, can you hear me?"
"No response—get her out first!"
"Sir, move back—"
Move back? I couldn’t.
I didn’t want to.
Someone had to physically pull my hands off her because I was still holding her face, like an idiot, like letting go meant something irreversible would happen.
She was breathing—barely—but she wasn’t waking up.
My chest tightened as they lifted her. Not from fear, or panic, from something sharper. Something that felt like it came from a place I should not have inside me for a woman I barely know.
A woman I’m supposed to barely know.
They carried her out into the hallway. Her head lolled to the side, her hair falling over her cheek, and I felt heat crawl up my throat—anger or fear, I couldn’t tell.
"Sir, are you injured?" someone asked.
"No," I growled, though my voice didn’t feel like mine. "Just—take care of her."
She looked so small in their arms. So fragile.
God, why does that bother me?
Why does it bother me this much?
As they laid her on the stretcher, I took a step toward her without thinking. My hand twitched—like I wanted to touch her again, to check if she was breathing, to feel that she was warm.
Why?
Why do I care?
Why does my chest feel like someone is tightening a rope around it?
Why did holding her calm her down? Why did she hold onto me like she trusted me?
Why did I want to kiss her panic away—
Why did I almost do it?
I clenched my jaw, nails digging into my palms. None of this made sense.
They strapped her onto the stretcher and began wheeling her down the hall.
And I just stood there, useless and frozen, staring after her like something important was being taken away from me.
I walked back to my ward in silence.
The hallway felt too bright, and loud with thoughts I didn’t even recognize as my own. They tried asking if I needed help, if I wanted to sit, if I felt dizzy. I brushed them off. I wasn’t dizzy.
I was… agitated.
By her.
By June.
June.
The name kept looping in my head like a loose thread I couldn’t stop pulling at.
It bothered me. I remember everything—my father, my friends, the company. My memories slot together perfectly like a puzzle with one deliberate hole carved out.
Her.
Why her?
Why can’t I remember someone who claims she was my secretary?
A secretary I apparently talked to casually. One who talks casually to me. Me—who doesn’t even let employees breathe too loud around me.
Was I that… different with her?
Was I free with her?
Relaxed?
Was she someone I trusted?
Someone close?
Why does she speak to me like it’s normal—like she expects me to snap at her, tease her, correct her, warn her?
What kind of man was I around her?
I reach my room and close the door, leaning back against it as a slow, frustrating heat coils low in my stomach. Her touch burns in my skin, still there, still alive. The way her fingers fisted my shirt, the way her breath shook against my palm—
God.
Why does her panic make my heart pound like that?
Why does her body against mine feel… right?
Why did I want to hold her longer?
And the worst part—the part I don’t want to even admit to myself—
My body reacted to her instantly.
I drag a hand through my hair, pacing once before stopping at my bed.
That nurse… That male nurse.
I don’t like him. I don’t like how he said her name. I don’t like how his eyes lingered on her.
The feeling was sharp and irrational, like jealousy—something I’ve never succumbed to. But I recognized the flavor of it. It's bitter, and hot, and Immediate.
Why was I jealous?
Was I… in love with her?
Is that why my memory claws at walls whenever I look at her?
Was this some pathetic unrequited crush on my secretary?
I sit on the bed, chest tight, breath unsteady. None of this makes sense.
I glance at the bedside table, my second sketch book.
I flip one open.
It's her, drawn from the side, while she was looking down at paperwork.
Then her brushing hair behind her ear. Then her biting her lip. Her half-smiling.
Page after page after page.
It's as if she lived in my hands. It's as if she lived in my head.
My throat dries. My fingers tremble.
What the hell was she to me?
Why would I draw her like this—obsessively, tenderly, repeatedly?
I flip to another page.
A sketch of her with her eyes closed.
Head tilted slightly upward. Her lips parted.
Lips I nearly kissed in that elevator.
A knock snaps me out of the spiral.
Then the door opens without waiting.
"Hermes?" Ted’s voice slices into my head. "What happened? Why are the guards saying you collapsed in the elevator? And why is June unconscious?"
I snap the sketchbook closed so fast it slaps.
Ted’s eyes narrow.
"Ted—June. Is she okay?" The words shot out of my mouth faster than I meant them to. My chest tightened while I waited.
Ted blinked, startled, then nodded. "Yeah, she’s fine. They’re checking her vitals. I thought you were hurt too."
I exhaled slowly, the tension leaking from my shoulders. "Good." I rubbed the back of my neck, but the relief didn’t quiet the storm under my skin. If anything, it made every question louder.
I turned to him. "Ted, I have to ask you something."
He nodded immediately, stepping closer. "Let it out, Hermes."
I looked away, chewing the inside of my cheek. "That secretary… June. When did she start working for me? Is she a new hire?"
Ted tilted his head, rubbing his jaw as if digging through files in his brain.
"Uh—Not quite long. Maybe four months. Five, tops."
My heart dropped.
Four to five months.
Not even half a year—and we were that casual? That natural? She looked at me with familiarity. I reacted to her like she was coded into my instincts.
"How can I not remember her?" I muttered. "Why her?"