I stood by the door, my hands buried deep in my pockets, feeling utterly helpless as I watched the doctors swarm around Peyton's bed. The sight of her convulsing, her body thrashing uncontrollably, sent a cold shiver down my spine. The machines beeped frantically, the sound slicing through the sterile air of the room, amplifying the sense of urgency.
How had it come to this?
Peyton wasn't supposed to be lying here, fighting for her life. The woman I met not too long ago was full of life, with a smile that could light up any room despite the weight of the world on her shoulders. She had this kindness, a gentleness about her that made you believe in the goodness of people, even in a world as ruthless as ours. And now… now she was a ghost of that woman, pale and fragile, lost in a battle I wasn't sure she could win.
Rage simmered just beneath the surface of my thoughts. How could Lucas have let this happen to her? He was supposed to protect her, to cherish her, yet here she was, broken and battered. I didn't know the specifics, but it wasn't hard to piece together that Lucas had something to do with this. He was a ruthless bastard—everyone knew that. But this? This was beyond ruthless. It was inhuman.
I watched the doctors work, barking orders at each other, trying desperately to stabilize her. My fists clenched tightly in my pockets, knuckles whitening as I fought the urge to punch something—anything. I wasn't used to feeling this powerless. In my world, money and influence could solve most problems, but here, in this cold, antiseptic room, none of that mattered. None of it could save her.
The doctors finally managed to calm her convulsions, the heart monitor gradually returning to a steady rhythm. But she was still so pale, so fragile. It hurt to see her like this, and as I looked down at her bruised face, a deep sadness mixed with the anger I felt. Peyton didn't deserve this. No one did.
I stepped closer to the bed, staring down at her, willing her to wake up. "Peyton…" I murmured, the word escaping my lips like a prayer. I wanted to reach out, to hold her hand, to tell her that she wasn't alone, that someone still cared about her. But what good would it do? She was trapped in her own world of pain, and there was nothing I could do to pull her out of it.
The doctors finished their work and filed out of the room, leaving me alone with her. The silence was deafening, broken only by the steady beeping of the machines. I pulled a chair up beside her bed and sat down, my mind racing.
I wasn't going to leave her. Not now. Not ever. She didn't deserve this, and I couldn't just walk away and pretend everything was fine. I couldn't let her face this alone.
As I sat there, watching her breathe, my anger began to crystallize into something sharper, more focused. Lucas might have caused this—there was no doubt in my mind about that—but I would make damn sure he paid for it. One way or another, there would be justice for Peyton.
I leaned back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling. How the hell did things get so messed up? Peyton deserved so much better than this. Better than Lucas. Better than whatever fate had thrown her way.
I couldn't shake the image of her when I first met her, all smiles and warmth, despite everything. That was the Peyton I wanted to see again—the one who still had hope in her eyes, the one who still believed in the possibility of happiness.
But would that Peyton ever come back? Could she?
My thoughts were interrupted by the soft beeping of the machines, a constant reminder of just how fragile her life was right now. I glanced over at her, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, and I felt that helplessness claw at me again. There was nothing I could do for her except sit here and wait.
But as I waited, that helplessness started to harden into resolve. Lucas might have gotten away with hurting her this time, but it wouldn't happen again. I would make sure of it.
I couldn't let her down. Not like Lucas had.
Hours passed, and I didn't move from her side. The hospital staff came and went, checking her vitals, adjusting her IV, but I barely registered them. My focus was entirely on Peyton, on willing her to open her eyes, to show some sign that she was still in there, still fighting.
For now, all I could do was wait. But as I sat there, listening to the steady beeping of the machines, I made a silent promise to her. I wouldn't let this be the end. I wouldn't let Lucas get away with this.
One way or another, I would make things right. I had to.
And as I sat there, waiting for her to wake up, that promise solidified in my mind. No matter what it took, I would make sure Peyton got the justice she deserved. I owed her that much. And more