The Name He Mentioned

Hailey's Pov 

I returned to the hospital with my thoughts sharpened into something dangerous.

The drive there passed in fragments. Streetlights bled into one another outside the window, streaks of white and amber smearing across the glass. My reflection stared back at me faintly, hollow-eyed and unsmiling. I barely registered the route, only the steady hum of the engine and the relentless replay of what Brandon had shown me.

The footage.

The nudge.

A single, precise movement that turned a public humiliation into a near-fatal attack.

Someone had planned it.

And that realization changed everything.

If someone had been willing to orchestrate violence in a banquet hall filled with Singapore's elite—surrounded by cameras, security, and witnesses—then this wasn't about jealousy or drunken rage. It wasn't about Lillian losing control or Tyler acting out of wounded pride.

This was intent.

And intent meant motive.

By the time the car pulled up to Singapore Central Hospital again, one name had settled firmly into my mind, refusing to leave.

Janet Lut.

The orphan my family had sponsored. The girl who had lived on the fringes of my life, smiling politely while her eyes tracked everything I touched, everything I owned, everything I was. Janet, who had learned early how to be invisible and how to want without ever asking.

I remembered the way she used to look at me—admiration twisted into something darker, something hungry.

She was back in Singapore.

I had heard it in passing before the banquet. A whisper at a charity luncheon. A name dropped casually at a gala. Janet Lut, reappearing among the elite like she had every right to be there.

Circling.

Watching.

Waiting.

The elevator ride to the VIP wing felt longer than it should have. The soft music piped in did nothing to calm me. My pulse thudded steadily, my body coiled with tension I couldn't shake.

When the doors slid open, the floor was quiet. Too quiet.

The chaos of earlier was gone. No rushing nurses. No urgent voices. Just hushed footsteps and the sterile scent of disinfectant hanging in the air.

I walked toward Kingsley's room slowly, my heels muted against the carpet.

The door opened with a soft mechanical sound.

The first thing I noticed was what wasn't there.

The ventilator was gone.

The machine that had filled the room with its steady, artificial rhythm earlier had been removed, replaced by the quieter, more fragile sound of human breathing. Kingsley's chest rose and fell beneath the sheets, unassisted.

Relief hit me hard and fast, catching me off guard.

I closed the door behind me and stood there for a moment, just watching.

He looked calmer now. Less like a man suspended between worlds and more like someone simply sleeping. The harshness of pain had softened his features, leaving behind something unexpectedly gentle.

I crossed the room and sat down in the chair beside his bed.

The silence between us was different this time.

It wasn't empty.

It was charged.

The monitors hummed softly, numbers flickering in steady rhythm. The dim lights cast shadows across his face, emphasizing the lines I'd never noticed before—the faint crease between his brows, the strength of his jaw.

I studied him the way one studies a stranger who somehow feels familiar.

His hand rested atop the blanket, close enough that I could see the faint bruising along his knuckles. Evidence of violence. Of intervention.

I hesitated only a moment before reaching out.

My fingers closed over his hand gently, grounding myself in the warmth of his skin.

"I keep thinking about that moment," I said quietly. "The second before everything went wrong."

My voice sounded strange in the stillness of the room—too intimate, too honest.

"You didn't hesitate," I continued. "You didn't even look surprised."

I leaned back slightly in the chair, my grip on his hand tightening unconsciously.

"I didn't ask you to protect me," I said. "And that's what makes this so unbearable."

His breathing remained steady, oblivious.

"I feel entitled to it," I admitted, the words burning as they left my mouth. "Like your protection is something I can claim. Something that belongs to me."

I swallowed hard.

"And I hate myself for that."

The confession lingered in the air, heavy and unspoken until now.

"Owing you my life makes me feel small," I said. "It makes me feel like I've crossed some invisible line I can't step back over."

I leaned forward, resting my elbows lightly on my knees.

"The deal was desperation," I said softly. "I told myself it was mutual, that you were using me just as much as I was using you."

I let out a slow breath.

"But then you bled for me."

My gaze drifted back to his face, searching it for answers that weren't there.

"I don't know how to reconcile that."

I fell silent for a moment, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, feeling the weight of everything I hadn't said pressing against my chest.

"There's something else," I said finally.

My voice dropped further, instinctively cautious.

"I used your mother."

The words felt sharp and cruel now, stripped of justification.

"I used her name like leverage. Like she was a bargaining chip instead of a person you lost."

I studied his face carefully, watching for any reaction as I said the word that had haunted him.

"Your mother."

Nothing changed.

No flicker. No tension. No shift in breath.

Disappointment settled in my chest, unexpected and heavy.

It made me feel like I was hunting ghosts—chasing pieces of a man who existed somewhere beneath the billionaire mask but refused to surface.

I leaned closer without realizing I'd moved, drawn by something I couldn't name. The air between us felt thin, charged by proximity and secrets.

"I'm trying to remember you," I whispered. "And I don't know why."

My eyes traced the familiar angles of his face, searching for the boy from my fractured memories.

The boy with the scar.

The boy who had screamed my name through smoke and shattered glass.

My fingers tightened around his hand.

And then—

He moved.

It was subtle at first. Just a twitch beneath my palm.

I froze, my breath catching painfully in my throat.

Then his fingers shifted again, curling faintly against mine.

"Kingsley?" I whispered, my voice barely audible.

His brow furrowed. His head rolled slightly to the side, as if the effort of surfacing from unconsciousness was dragging him toward wakefulness against his will.

His lips parted.

A sound slipped out—dry, cracked, fragile.

A name.

Not mine.

A childhood nickname I hadn't heard in fifteen years.

The room seemed to tilt.

My heart slammed violently against my ribs as recognition tore through me.