Fake Date, Real Fate-Chapter 148: Wired for You [I]

The silence in my car on the drive away was heavier than any sound. It was the silence of a tomb, thick with ghosts Caden had so eagerly resurrected.

My knuckles throbbed, a dull, satisfying ache against the leather of the steering wheel. The skin was split over two of them. I barely registered it.

The tires peeled away from the curb with a low, angry growl, the engine roaring as I shifted gears like I needed to punish the car for what was crawling through me. My jaw ached from clenching. My pulse beat fast and tight, drumming under my skin like war.

I didn’t go back to the office. I didn’t go home.

I didn’t think. I just drove.

Back to her.

Back to the one person who tethered me to anything resembling reason.

The city blurred around me—lights, buildings, people. None of it registered. My knuckles were raw, blood dried along the ridges.

When I reached St. Lambert’s, Camron was waiting by the entrance, his eyes followed my hands as I got out of the car.

"Adrien," he said, his gaze flicking to my knuckles. "Is it handled?"

"For now," I said, my voice flat.

"You good man?"

I didn’t answer right away.

Just stared past him, toward the hospital doors.

"I’m fine," I muttered finally, though it sounded like a lie even to me.

Cameron’s eyes flicked to my knuckles again. "You get what you needed?"

"I got enough."

I didn’t wait for more questions.

I brushed past him, the antiseptic scent of the lobby a stark contrast to the coppery smell of blood that still clung to me. I stopped at a washroom first, scrubbing my hands raw under scalding water, watching the pink-tinged soap swirl down the drain. I straightened my collar, adjusted my cuffs to hide the worst of the scrapes, and ran a hand through my hair. I took a deep breath, forcing the violent tremor from my muscles, burying the rage in me. I couldn’t bring that into her room.

The hallway to her room was dim, softened by the muted lighting that hospitals thought made things feel less sterile. It didn’t work.

I walked past the nurses’ station. One of them looked up, recognized me, and said nothing.

Good.

I didn’t want anyone speaking to me. Not now.

The guards stationed outside Orchid Suite One nodded as I approached, and I barely acknowledged them. My palm hovered over the door handle for a second longer than necessary. Not because I was hesitating.

Because I didn’t want to bring what was still burning inside me into her space.

Then I opened the door.

When I entered, she was sitting up in bed, a tablet resting on her lap, but her eyes were fixed on the window. She turned at the soft click of the door, and a big smile touched her lips. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

That smile stopped me cold.

She didn’t know what I’d done tonight. What I’d become, again, just to make sure no one ever touched her like that again.

And still—she looked at me like I was her safest place.

"Hey," she said, soft and warm. Her voice was a balm I didn’t deserve.

I walked to her bedside, my eyes scanning the medical readouts on the monitor beside her. Heart rate steady. Oxygen levels normal. Good. My own heart, which had been hammering a frantic, angry rhythm against my ribs, began to slow.

ISABELLA’S POV

The door opened softly. I glanced up from the tablet, which had been less a distraction and more a prop for my restless mind, and my breath caught. Adrien.

A smile, wide and unbidden, stretched across my lips. It was a reflex, an automatic blossoming of joy and relief that always bloomed in his presence. "Hey," I said, my voice softer than I intended, laced with all the warmth I felt. He was here.

He stood silhouetted for a moment, the dim hallway light framing his tall, broad frame.

Then he stepped in, and for a moment, everything else faded. He wasn’t wearing his suit jacket. Just a black button-down with the sleeves pushed halfway up—no tie, top buttons undone. He looked tired, but still... him.

"You look like someone just fired half your board."

He gave a short exhale—might’ve been a laugh.

"Worse. I’ve been sitting in traffic."

"Tragic."

He came closer, and I patted the edge of the bed. He didn’t sit, but he leaned over, one hand on the mattress, the other brushing my cheek.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, voice low.

"Better. The nurse said if I behave, I might get real food tonight."

"Then I’ll tell them to keep you under surveillance. You never behave."

I smiled. He bent forward and kissed my forehead. I closed my eyes for the second it lasted, letting myself lean into the comfort.

When he pulled back, I caught his wrist gently.

"You look exhausted."

"I’ve been worse," he murmured.

"Still. Sit. For me."

He didn’t argue.

He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed with a sigh that sounded far older than he was, his eyes never leaving mine. I watched as he rolled his sleeves up further, the quiet snap of his cuffs making my throat tighten for reasons that had nothing to do with pain.

That’s when I noticed it.

A smear of something dark. Right at the edge of his collar.

I frowned.

"Adrien," I said slowly, reaching forward. "Is that—?"

He turned slightly, confused. My fingers brushed the fabric near his collarbone.

"Is that blood?"

His head tilted. He looked down but clearly hadn’t seen it before.

"Must be wine," he said quickly, already unbuttoning his shirt like it was nothing.

And I forgot how to breathe.

One button. Then another.

And then the whole shirt was open.

My eyes dropped.

I stared.

Not at the blood. Not anymore.

At him.

His chest was bare beneath it—smooth, lean, built in a way that made my thoughts stumble over themselves. My mind went blank, replaced by a purely primal appreciation for the lines of his pectorals, the defined cut of his abdomen. The dim hospital light carved shadows that only emphasized his strength. For a dizzying moment, I forgot where we were. I forgot the antiseptic smell, the IV in my arm, the reason I was here at all. I could swear I have never noticed all of this before.

"Seriously?" I muttered. "You could’ve just wiped it."

He didn’t answer.

He just shrugged the shirt off his shoulders completely—like it meant nothing—and tossed it onto the chair in the corner.

He arched a brow, one corner of his mouth twitching. "You’re staring."

I blinked.

"No, I’m not."

"You’ve gone quiet. That usually means trouble."

I rolled my eyes and turned away a little, cheeks warm. "You know exactly what you’re doing."

He chuckled—deep, warm, amused. "Do I?"

"Do I?" he repeated, stepping closer, and my gaze, against my will, drifted back to him. He was a force of nature, a quiet storm, and right now, he was a very distracting, very shirtless storm.

"You’re ridiculous," I finally managed, though my voice was still a little breathy. I tried to sound annoyed, but the smile kept trying to break through.

"It’s fine. You’re allowed to look. Just say thank you like a good girl."

I made a sound—half laugh, half scandalized breath—and smacked his shoulder. "You’re insufferable."

He didn’t move. Just smirked. "You blush so easily."

I cleared my throat and reached for the glass of water on my tray just to do something with my hands. freēwēbηovel.c૦m

That’s when I saw it.

His right hand.

Knuckles scraped. Skin raw and darkened in a way that looked fresh.

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