Fake Date, Real Fate-Chapter 143: Her Silence, My Storm [II]

ISABELLA’S POV

Darkness.

Soft. Thick. Like a soft curtain had dropped behind my eyes and refused to lift.

Somewhere far off, a rhythm beat softly, steady and faint, like a distant drum calling me back.

Where...?

I tried to open my eyes. Nothing happened.

Tried again.

Still nothing.

My body felt... heavy

I couldn’t remember where I was. Only the water—blinding, burning. The pressure. The sound. The pain. Something grabbing my legs. Something hitting my head.

Then nothing.

Now, only the void. Only this half-waking limbo wrapped in static.

Then—voices. Muffled. Like through thick walls or deep water.

I tried to move toward it, to surface from wherever I’d sunk. But my body... didn’t exist. I was floating. Heavy and numb.

"...she has a head wound... her blood is on the floor..."

A sharp breath. That voice—low. Smooth. Cold.

Familiar.

Adrien?

My heart stuttered.

I tried to move. To twitch a finger. Anything.

But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t open my eyes. Couldn’t run.

The voices rose. His voice. Dangerous now. Hard.

"If she dies..."

Dies?

Me?

Was I dying?

"...spill your blood on this floor..."

My breath caught in my throat—or would’ve, if I could breathe properly. My lungs burned again. My head throbbed.

What was happening? Who was he talking to?

"Kill."

He said kill.

No context. Just that one sharp syllable, hissed like a command.

My stomach twisted.

What did he mean, kill?

Who was he talking to? Why did his voice sound like that? Why couldn’t I open my eyes?

Panic bloomed like fire under my skin. But I was frozen. Trapped in a body that wouldn’t obey.

I tried to scream. Tried to ask for help. But my mouth wouldn’t open.

Are they going to kill me?

Was this what dying felt like?

A whimper tried to rise in my throat. Nothing came.

Adrien’s voice again, clipped and angry. Too far away now.

"I should spill your blood—"

Then silence. A door clicking shut. Boots walking away.

Terror crawled up my spine like a tide.

Why couldn’t I move? Why couldn’t I scream? Why did Adrien sound like—

A monster?

My thoughts splintered, spiraling out. Was I alone? Was someone still here? What if no one was? What if...

Am I dying?

Darkness pulled again, wrapping around my mind like a sheet. I wanted to fight it. To claw out. To scream his name.

I wanted to ask him what was happening.

I wanted him to hold me.

I wanted to wake up.

But the world was slipping.

The world slipped. Or perhaps it was me, slipping deeper into its dark embrace. The soft rhythm that had once called to me was gone, replaced by a profound, echoing silence. My own frantic thoughts, once a swirling vortex of panic, began to dissipate, fragments of fear dissolving into the vast, empty space.

I was no longer floating. I was... sinking. A gentle, relentless descent into something colder, deeper than the water I remembered. The pressure returned, not crushing this time, but a heavy, pervasive weight, pressing down on my mind, blurring the edges of my awareness.

Dying, the word echoed, a faint whisper from a forgotten room. Adrien. His voice, sharp and dark, a phantom blade against the fading light.

ADRIEN’S POV

Dr. Kassel re-entered, this time with no tablet in hand—just a soft, relieved expression. She moved to the bed and checked the monitors, brushing her knuckles lightly across Isabella’s cheek before turning to me.

"She’s improving. Her oxygen levels are up. Brain activity is normalizing. No signs of secondary swelling."

My chest rose, tension loosening by a fraction. "When will she wake?"

"Soon," she said gently. "Could be an hour. Could be the next time you blink. Her body just needs a little longer."

I exhaled, slowly. But Kassel wasn’t done.

"But when she does wake, Mr. Walton... don’t push her. She’ll be disoriented. Maybe scared. She’ll need gentle care, not interrogation. No phones. No work."

I nodded.

"I mean it," she added, stepping closer. "She shouldn’t be stressed. Physically or emotionally. Any trauma might slow her recovery."

My mouth twitched. She didn’t know Isabella.

Kassel continued, flipping through her notes. "Her family should be close. If her parents aren’t here yet, I suggest they come soon. Patients in post-traumatic states sometimes respond faster when they feel safe. Comforted."

I didn’t respond.

Because Isabella didn’t draw comfort from tradition. Or softness.

My girlfriend is soft-spoken, yes—but stubborn as hell. She didn’t know how to sit still. She wouldn’t rest. Even if she opened her eyes dazed and broken, the first thing out of her mouth would be a question. Is everyone okay? What happened? Can I help?

She found calm in control. In having something to do. She would wake up and ask for her laptop before her painkillers.

"You should’ve seen her vitals spike," Kassel added, almost absently, "when we mentioned your name during the scan. That kind of connection—it’s important."

My gaze flickered back to Isabella, lying so still against the white sheets. Vitals spiking at my name. Kassel meant it as a tender observation, a testament to affection. To me, it was data. A confirmation of a bond that was both an anchor and, at times, a volatile current. She felt me, even in the darkness. My presence, like a pulse, reached her.

"Thank you, Doctor," I said, my voice clipped. The words were a dismissal.

Kassel looked at me expectantly, then sighed at my silence. "Well, I’ll leave you to it. There’s a call button if you need anything at all. I’ll check back in a few hours."

"Thank you, Doctor."

She gave me one last, concerned glance, then exited the room, the door clicking softly behind her.

I was alone with her again.

I walked to the bedside, dragging the chair closer. The silence was heavy, punctuated only by the soft beeping of the monitors and the shallow rise and fall of her chest.

Her skin was still too pale, a stark contrast to the dark bruising already forming on her forehead where she’d hit it. My fingers ached to trace the line of it, to smooth away the mark, but I kept them clenched at my sides.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I reached out, my hand hovering over her hair. It was splayed on the pillow, damp with sweat, the strands tangled. I resisted the urge to rake my fingers through it. Gentle care.

Instead, I took her hand. It felt small and fragile in mine, cool to the touch. I intertwined our fingers, letting the warmth of my skin seep into hers. My thumb brushed over her knuckles, tracing the faint lines.

Her breathing remained even. Her pulse, displayed on the monitor, a steady, reassuring rhythm. The distant drum, perhaps, that had called her back.

I leaned back in the chair, my gaze fixed on her face. Her lips were slightly parted, a soft sigh escaping them. I wondered what she was dreaming, what terrors might still be lurking in the depths of her subconscious.

I wouldn’t leave her side until she opened her eyes. Until I saw that fire, that stubborn determination, flicker back into them.

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