"Where is Raymond?"
Marianne's voice was hoarse, broken, as if she had been screaming in her dream for a very long time.
She tried to sit up, but a sharp pain shot through her shoulder. It felt like fire. Cold sweat broke out across her forehead instantly.
The ward was quiet. Too quiet.
The white curtains swayed from the half-open window. The summer breeze carried heat, but the air conditioner was not high. On the sofa beside the hospital bed, there was an indent — someone had been sitting there for a long time. A laptop was half-closed on the coffee table, its screen still glowing faintly. A half-drunk cup of black coffee was beside it.
But Raymond was not there.
Panic rose from the bottom of her heart and choked her throat.
"Where is Raymond?" she whispered again, louder this time.
The nurse who had just pushed open the door saw her awake and her eyes lit up with joy. She rushed to the edge of the bed.
"Ah! Madam, you are awake!"
She quickly held Marianne's shoulders gently to keep her from moving, while pressing the call bell with her other hand.
"Madam, don't move. Your injuries are not yet healed. They are severe. You were shot at the doorstep. The bullet went through your shoulder."
Marianne grabbed the nurse's hand, her pupils shaking. Tears filled her eyes.
"Where is Raymond? Is he okay? Where did he go? The sniper... there was a sniper..."
Her consciousness was slowly returning. She remembered — Raymond had shown her a surprise. They were heading back home, laughing. And then at their doorstep, a loud crack. A burning pain in her shoulder. And then darkness.
"Mr. Griffin... Mr. Griffin stepped out just for a minute, Madam," the nurse said softly. "He sat here with you for a whole day and night. He didn't sleep. He was working on his laptop while watching you. He only went out to eat something. He told Jackson to watch over you. He will be back very soon."
Marianne's heart was beating violently. Her eyes were fixed on the door, full of tears.
"I want to see him... I want to see him now..."
Just then, the door to the ward was pushed open.
Raymond walked in.
He was wearing a simple black shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his prominent, powerful forearms. His hair was slightly messy. His face was tired, with dark circles under his eyes. He was holding a paper bag of food in one hand, but when he saw Marianne — awake, sitting up, tears streaming down her face, her shoulder bleeding again through the bandage because she had struggled — his whole body froze.
The paper bag fell from his hand.
"Marianne?"
His voice was hoarse.
In two strides he was at her bedside. He knelt down, his large hands cupping her pale, sweaty face. His knuckles, which were always so calm when typing on the keyboard like he was playing a piano, were now trembling.
"You're awake," he whispered, his voice breaking. "You're finally awake."
When Marianne saw him — really saw him, alive, breathing, right in front of her — she couldn't hold it anymore. All the fear from her childhood dream, all the fear from the shooting, all the loneliness of waking up in a white room alone, burst out.
"Raymond..." she sobbed, throwing her uninjured arm around his neck, holding him tightly as if he would disappear. "I thought... I thought you were gone... I woke up and you weren't here... I thought the sniper..."
Her tears soaked his black shirt.
Raymond's heart broke into pieces.
He had never seen her like this. Even when Olivia flogged her and made her kneel in the snow for three days as a child, she hadn't cried like this. She was always the girl who shrank her neck and endured. But now she was crying like a lost child in his arms.
"It's okay, I'm here. I'm here," he whispered into her hair, his arms wrapping tightly around her small, trembling body. He held her so carefully, afraid to touch her wounded shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I stepped out. I should never have left. I just went to get some food. I was gone for five minutes. I'm so sorry."
He gently pulled back and looked at her face, wiping her tears with his thumbs, but more tears kept falling.
"Does it hurt?" He looked at her shoulder, where fresh blood was seeping through the white gauze. His eyes turned red with self-blame and anger. "Jackson!"
Jackson appeared at the door instantly.
"Call the doctor! Now!"
The nurse had already called the doctor. Within seconds, two doctors and two nurses rushed in.
"Mr. Griffin, please let us check her wound. She moved too much, the wound has opened again," the doctor said urgently.
Raymond didn't want to let go, but he had to. He gently helped Marianne lie back down, his hand never leaving hers. He held her right hand tightly while the doctor cut open the blood-stained bandage.
Marianne hissed in pain, her fingers squeezing Raymond's hand hard.
Raymond's knuckles turned white. He leaned down close to her ear, his voice low and gentle, only for her to hear.
"Look at me, Marianne. Only look at me. Breathe with me. It's okay. I'm not going anywhere again. I promise."
Marianne looked into his deep, tired eyes. His eyes, which were always so cold to the rest of the world, were now full of only her. Her breathing slowly steadied to match his.
The doctor worked quickly, cleaning the wound, applying new medicine, and bandaging it tightly again.
"She needs absolute rest," the doctor said to Raymond sternly. "No more excitement. The bullet didn't hit any vital organs, but she lost a lot of blood. And her body is very weak from the shock."
Raymond nodded, his eyes never leaving Marianne's face.
After the doctors left, the room became quiet again.
Marianne was exhausted from crying. Her eyelids were heavy, but she refused to close her eyes. She was afraid that if she closed her eyes, Raymond would be gone again.
Raymond sat on the edge of the bed, carefully pulling her into his arms, letting her head rest against his chest. He could feel her tears soaking through his shirt again.
"You had a long dream, didn't you?" he whispered, stroking her tangled hair gently. "You were crying in your sleep. You were calling for your father."
Marianne froze slightly in his arms.
"I... I dreamt of when I was little," she whispered. "I was kneeling in the snow. And then... I dreamt of a boy. A cold boy with a Bugatti. And his silly brother. He told me to get in his car."
Raymond's hand paused for a second in her hair.
Then he smiled faintly, a smile that didn't reach his tired eyes.
"Do you remember what the boy looked like?" he asked softly.
Marianne shook her head weakly against his chest. "I only remember his eyes were very cold... but his hand was very warm..."
Raymond held her tighter, his chin resting on top of her head. Outside, the white curtains continued to sway.
That boy was him.
But he didn't say it. Not yet.
He just held her as she slowly fell back into a tired, safe sleep in his arms, while he sat there like a statue, guarding her, his laptop forgotten on the sofa, his food getting cold on the floor.