His broken healer

Isabella's Pov

There's something unsettling about the way a normal morning can turn into the worst day of your life.

I never saw it coming.

Mondays were predictable—the alarm buzzing at 5:30 a.m., the reluctance to leave my warm bed, and the comforting scent of coffee wafting from the kitchen. That morning was no different.

Until it was.

I was fastening my wristwatch, my mind already on the long shift ahead at Southampton General Hospital when a piercing scream shattered the stillness.

"Oh my God! Thomas, wake up! Wake up!"

My mother's voice. Raw. Desperate. Terrifying.

The world tilted.

I bolted down the stairs, my pulse a frantic drum against my ribs. The sight that greeted me stole the breath from my lungs—my father sprawled on the floor, his phone lying in shattered pieces beside him. His chest unmoving. My mother sobbing, shaking him, pleading for him to wake up.

No. No, no, no. This can't be happening.

A cold, suffocating fear gripped me, but my training kicked in before panic could consume me. I whirled around, sprinting back upstairs, my hands fumbling for my phone.

9-1-1.

My voice was a mess of gasps and urgency as I relayed our address. Then, dropping to my knees beside my father, I started CPR.

One. Two. Three. Four.

I pressed down, willing his heart to respond.

"Come on, Dad. Please."

Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

My mother's sobs were a background blur. My entire world had narrowed to the rise and fall that wasn't happening.

Seconds stretched into eternity. Then—

Sirens. Flashing lights. The front door bursting open.

Paramedics flooded in, their movements swift, efficient, too practiced. I moved aside, watching them work, my hands trembling from adrenaline and dread.

A voice cut through the chaos. "Let's move!"

I followed the stretcher, gripping my mother's hand as we stumbled toward the ambulance. The ride to the hospital was a blur of flashing lights, whispered prayers, and the relentless beeping of the heart monitor.

Inside the emergency room, the medical team took over. I tried to follow, but a firm hand stopped me.

"Dr. Isabella, you can't be in here," Nurse Evelyn said softly.

I wanted to argue. To demand to be by my father's side. But my mother's trembling grip kept me grounded.

So, we waited.

Minutes crawled by. The antiseptic-scented air felt too thick, the fluorescent lights too harsh.

Then the doors swung open.

Dr. Ken.

Arrogant. Brilliant. The kind of doctor who walked like he owned the hospital.

Right now, I didn't care about any of that.

"Doctor, is my dad okay?" My voice cracked.

"He's stable," he said.

Relief slammed into me so hard my knees nearly buckled. My mother sobbed into my shoulder, this time with joy instead of fear.

But something still gnawed at me.

"What caused it?" I asked.

Dr. Ken studied me for a moment before replying, "A sudden spike in blood pressure. The shock nearly triggered a hypertensive crisis. If he hadn't received medical attention in time, it could have been worse."

Shock?

What had startled my father so badly?

I needed to know.

But first, I needed to see him.

---

Later, I sat by my father's hospital bed, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. He looked so frail beneath the sterile white sheets, a stark contrast to the man who had always seemed invincible to me.

The heart monitor beeped in a slow, rhythmic pattern. I gripped his hand gently, searching for warmth.

"Dad, you scared the hell out of us," I whispered, even though I knew he couldn't hear me.

My mother sat beside me, her hands clasped together in silent worry. Neither of us spoke much. What was there to say?

I glanced at my phone. Lilian had called twice already. I ignored it. I wasn't ready to talk about this—not yet.

I exhaled slowly, rubbing my tired eyes. Hours had passed, and he still hadn't woken up.

"I have to check in at the physiotherapy unit," I told my mother. "Call me if anything changes."

She gave a small nod, her gaze never leaving my father.

With one last glance at his sleeping form, I stood and quietly slipped out of the room.

---

Physiotherapy Unit

Lilian spotted me the moment I walked into the physiotherapy unit. Her sharp gaze swept over me, instantly picking up on what I already knew—I looked terrible.

"Okay, what's going on?" she demanded, hands on her hips. "You look way too dull for a Monday morning. It's unusual for you to be late to work, and I called you earlier—you didn't pick up."

I sighed, rubbing my temples. There was no escaping her interrogation.

"I'm fine, Lilian," I muttered, but even I didn't sound convincing.

She narrowed her eyes. "Lies. Spill."

Instead of answering, I walked past her and into my office. She followed, shutting the door behind us.

I sank onto the couch, exhaustion weighing down on me. "Dad collapsed this morning."

Her breath hitched. "What?! Why didn't you call me? Is he okay now? What did the doctor say?"

I waited for her rapid-fire questioning to end before responding. "He's stable for now," I said, exhaling slowly. "But I don't know what triggered it. I haven't even asked my mum yet."

Lilian's playful demeanor softened. "You okay?"

I nodded, though exhaustion pressed heavy on my chest.

She didn't push, just sat with me. That was the thing about Lilian—she always knew when to joke and when to just be there.

By noon, I was drained.

"Lunch break?" I suggested.

"Absolutely."

We grabbed coffee from a nearby café. As we walked back, I spotted an elderly woman selling fresh flowers. Their delicate fragrance filled the air.

I stopped. "Excuse me, ma'am, can I get one of these?"

The woman's eyes twinkled as she handed me a bouquet. I smiled, feeling lighter for the first time all day.

Back at the hospital, Lilian and I made our way to Dad's room, but just as we reached the hallway, her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen and sighed.

"I have to get this—it's from our unit," she said apologetically.

I gave her a small nod. "Go ahead. I'll check on Dad."

She squeezed my hand briefly before hurrying off, leaving me alone.

I stepped into the hospital room, the sterile scent of antiseptics mixing with the faint floral fragrance of the bouquet I carried. Carefully, I placed the flowers by my father's bedside, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the pale, lifeless sheets.

He was still asleep, his breathing steady but shallow. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound in the quiet room.

I sank into the chair beside him, exhaustion settling over me like a heavy blanket.

Then minutes later, my mother returned, holding a pack of food.

"Mum, you didn't have to go all the way home to cook," I said softly, glancing at the food in her hands. "You know the hospital serves decent meals."

She gave me a small, tired smile. "I know, but your father loves my cooking. I wanted him to have something familiar when he wakes up."

I sighed, understanding the sentiment. She was trying to bring him comfort in the only way she knew how.

Then a thought crossed my mind. "What about you? Have you eaten?"

She hesitated, her grip tightening slightly around the food container before she shook her head.

I frowned. "Mum, you need to take care of yourself too."

She sighed, glancing down at the container as if only now realizing she hadn't thought about herself.

"I'm not really hungry," she murmured.

I crossed my arms, my tone gentle but firm. "Mum, you need to eat. Dad wouldn't want you running on an empty stomach."

She looked at me for a long moment before finally giving in with a small nod. Slowly, she unwrapped the food and took a bite.

Something nagged at me

"What exactly happened before Dad collapsed?" I asked.

She swallowed, wiped her mouth, and shook her head. "I don't know, Isabella. He was on the phone. Talking to someone. Then—he just collapsed."

A chill ran down my spine.

My father had been talking to someone?

My breath caught. "Who was he talking to?"

She shook her head again. "I have no idea."

Just then, my father stirred. A faint groan escaped his lips as his eyes fluttered open.

Relief washed over me.

"Dad?" I leaned in, my voice softer now.

His gaze met mine, still heavy with exhaustion. "Isabella."

I exhaled slowly. "How are you feeling now?"

He let out a weak sigh. "Like I ran a marathon I didn't sign up for."

A small smile tugged at my lips, but it didn't reach my eyes. "Well, you collapsed. Gave us quite a scare."

He blinked a few times, as if trying to recall. "So I've been told."

A beat of silence stretched between us before I asked, "Do you remember what happened?"

His fingers curled slightly against the blanket. "Just felt a little off… dizzy maybe." His voice was quiet, almost hesitant. "Next thing I knew, I was here."

Something about his answer felt a bit awkward.

I hesitated before saying, "Mum mentioned you were on the phone before it happened."

His lips parted, but then he pressed them together. A flicker of something crossed his face—something unreadable.

"Was I?" His voice was too casual. "Must not have been important."

I studied him carefully. He was holding something back.

"Dad…"

His eyes drifted shut for a second before opening again. "Isabella, let it go."

Let it go? How could I, when he had collapsed?

But I could see the weariness in his face, the way even this conversation drained him. Now wasn't the time to push.

So, I nodded. "Alright. Just rest, okay?"

A small, tired smile touched his lips. "Bossy as ever."

I let out a soft chuckle. "You wouldn't have it any other way."

His breathing evened out, his body relaxing.

But my mind didn't.

Something wasn't right. I believe is hiding something from us.

People don't collapse over nothing.

And I was going to find out why.

For now, I pushed the thought aside and helped Dad sit up while Mum carefully fed him. He looked better, but the incident still lingered in my mind. Since lunch break was over, I excused myself and returned to my department.