What He Never Told Her

Hailey's Pov 

The ventilator breathes for him.

It’s a steady, mechanical sound—soft but relentless—filling the VIP hospital room with a rhythm that makes it impossible to forget where I am or why. Inhale, Exhale, Inhale, Exhale. Every breath is counted, monitored, granted by a machine that hums quietly beside the bed.

Kingsley lies still beneath crisp white sheets, his skin pale under the dimmed lights. The sharp lines of his face look softened like this, stripped of arrogance, stripped of control. Tubes ran where they shouldn’t. Bandages wrapped his torso, clean and precise, hiding the damages I know are underneath.

I sat in the corner of the room, half swallowed by shadow.

The chair is comfortable, in fact, too comfortable. The kind of expensive comfort meant to keep people docile, cooperative, grateful. I didn’t lean back, I didn’t relax. My spine stays straight, my hands folded tightly in my lap, fingers pressing into each other until the faint ache reminds me I’m still here.

Still awake.

Still waiting.

The private nurse moves quietly around the room, checking monitors, adjusting settings, her shoes barely making a sound against the polished floor. She’s professional, detached, the way people become when pain isn’t personal.

For me, it’s unbearable.

I watched everything.

The way she lifts the sheet. The way her hands hover before touching him, methodical and practiced. The way Kingsley doesn’t react when she shifts his arm or checks the IV line.

When she started cleaning the dried blood along his side, I realized I leaned forward without noticing.

My pulse picks up.

The nurse gently rolls him slightly to one side, careful not to disturb the tubing or the fresh sutures. The movement exposes more of his torso, more than I’ve seen before.

And then I saw it again.

Not the surgical wound, not the bruising.

The mark.

It’s on his side, lower than the scar near his collarbone. Deeper, Rougher. The skin there is uneven, jagged, like it healed wrong—or was never given the chance to heal properly. It doesn’t look recent. It looks old. Old enough to have faded into his body, but not old enough to disappear.

My breath stops.

The room tilts slightly, like I’ve stood up too fast.

The nurse keeps working, oblivious to the fact that my world has just cracked open. My eyes locked onto the scar, tracing its shape without permission. I knew it, I knew it the way you know the shape of your own face or body 

Pressure builds behind my eyes.

Then the memory hits.

Not whole, it wasn't clear.

Just fragments.

Glass exploding outward, the sound is sharp and endless, like the world shattering in slow motion. The smell of burning rubber floods my senses, thick and choking. Heat. Smoke. Pain blooms across my chest as something jerks violently.

And a voice.

His voice.

“Hailey!”

The scream echoes inside my head, tearing through the fog that has lived there for years. My hand clenches around the armrest, knuckles going white.

The image vanishes as quickly as it came.

I gasp softly, sucking in air as if I’ve been underwater.

The nurse glances up. “Ms. Norway? Are you all right?”

I nodded too quickly. “Fine. Just… tired.”

She studies me for a moment, then returns to her task.

But I’m not fine.

Because I know.

The realization settles into me with a sickening weight.

This isn’t the first time he's been hurt because of me.

That scar didn’t come from a random accident. It didn’t come from some careless moment or bar fight or business rivalry. It came from something that involved me—something my mind has locked away so completely that only his damaged body can unlock it.

He wasn’t a stranger who appeared conveniently when my marriage fell apart.

He’s been there before.

A ghost in my life, long before divorce papers were thrown at my face, Long before I traded my name for anonymity. 

Long before Tyler.

The nurse finishes adjusting his bandages and steps back. “He’s stable for now. The next few hours are important, but the surgery went well.”

For now.

Those words clung to me as she left the room, the door clicking shut behind her. The silence that follows is heavy, charged, broken only by the steady hum of the ventilator and the soft beeping of monitors.

I’m alone with him.

The thought sends a strange tremor through my chest.

I stood slowly, my legs stiff from sitting too long. Every step toward the bed feels deliberate, like crossing a line I can’t uncross. I stopped at the edge, close enough to see the faint crease between his brows, close enough to notice how dark his lashes are against his skin.

He looks younger like this.

Vulnerable.

My heart hammers against my ribs, loud in my ears.

For the first time since I met him again, I’m the one who initiates contact.

I reached out.

My hand trembles as it hovers over him, uncertainty flickering through me. This isn’t part of the deal. Touch was never included. The distance was supposed to be clean, safe.

But I’m past safety.

I lowered my hand onto his.

His skin is warm, solid, and alive.

His pulse beats steadily beneath my palm, grounding me in a way nothing else has tonight. The simple rhythm sends a wave of relief through me so strong my throat tightens.

“You’re impossible,” I murmured quietly.

The words slip out before I can stop them. They aren’t an accusation, They aren’t praise. They’re something else entirely—something honest.

I thought about the way he smiled before he fell. The way he stepped in without hesitation. The way he didn’t even look surprised when the glass shattered.

Like he’d done it before.

Like protecting me was instinct.

“I don’t even know you,” I whispered. “And somehow… you know me too well.”

My fingers curl slightly around his hand, the contact sending a strange warmth up my arm. 

It’s intimate in a way I’m not prepared for. It was not dramatic, not overwhelming, it felt just real.

The hunger to understand him—to know what he never told me—pushes against my fear. It’s quiet but persistent, gnawing at me from the inside.

I said his name.

Softly.

“Kingsley.”

He didn't stir. The anesthesia holds him firmly in its grip, keeping him suspended somewhere I can’t reach.

I withdrew my hand slowly, reluctantly, as if breaking a connection I shouldn’t have formed in the first place. I returned to the chair, but it feels different now. 

It felt less distant, less safe.

I didn't sit back down.

A knock sounded at the door.

It was sharp and out of place.

I turned just as it opened.

A hospital courier steps inside, pushing a cart. Untop, say an enormous bouquet of white lilies, pristine and overwhelming, their scent strong enough to cut through the sterile smell of disinfectant.

My stomach tightens.

The courier offers a polite smile. “Delivery for Ms. Hailey Norway.”

I stared at the flowers.

White lilies.

Flowers of mourning.

Of funerals.

Of endings.

“Yes,” I said slowly. “That’s me.”

He sets the bouquet on the table near the window and hands me a card.

 “Have a good evening.”

The door closes behind him.

The room feels colder.

I approached the bouquet cautiously, every instinct screaming that something was wrong. The flowers are too expensive. Too deliberate. Whoever sent them wanted to make a point.

My fingers slide the card free.

The cardstock is thick. Heavy. Expensive.

There’s no signature.

Just a single typed sentence.

He shouldn’t have jumped in front of the glass, Hailey. It only delays the inevitable.