It was late afternoon when Lena decided to surprise Ethan by bringing lunch to his office.
She had insisted on walking part of the way—fresh air, she said. She wore sunglasses and a scarf, her limp still present from the injury she sustained during her initial escape, but improving day by day.
At the same time, Ethan had stepped out briefly to meet a client downstairs.
The timing, as fate would have it, was terrible.
The stalker had been hiding in the building's parking garage.Waiting.
And when he saw Lena, alone and distracted, his chance surfaced.
He followed her silently.
But she sensed it—some instinct tugging at the base of her spine. She turned, and in that exact second, he lunged.
She screamed.
From the stairwell above, Ethan heard it.
He ran.
Lena was backing up as the stalker raised a switchblade, frantic, eyes wild and muttering incoherent things about love, betrayal, and "taking her back."
Ethan arrived at the stairwell landing just in time to see the man shift direction—to him.
It happened in a blur.
Ethan, still unarmed, was cornered on the edge of the stairs. The man rushed him, blade glinting under the artificial lighting.
Lena didn't think.
She threw herself forward. A body blow, her full weight slamming into the stalker's side.
All three stumbled.
Ethan caught the rail.
The stalker tumbled—but managed to twist away at the last second.
But Lena—
Lena crashed down the concrete stairs.
Head. Shoulder. Back.
The sound of her body hitting the steps echoed like something final.
When Ethan reached her, she wasn't moving. Blood streaked her temple. Her left leg was bent at a horrifying angle. Her breathing was ragged, chest struggling to rise.
"Lena!" he choked, his voice cracking as he knelt beside her. "Lena, please—stay awake. Stay with me."
She opened her eyes just a little.
"Y-you're safe," she whispered, then fell unconscious.
The building's security—already on high alert—stormed in.
The stalker didn't get far.
Cornered by three guards and soon after by police, he fought like a trapped animal, shouting delusions about Lena choosing him, about Ethan stealing her, about fate and betrayal.
It took five officers to restrain him.
Later, it was revealed that he had a collection of photos, memorabilia, and handwritten letters addressed to Lena, none of which were ever sent. His obsession had deepened after she left the public eye—and twisted further when she reappeared beside someone like Ethan.
He was institutionalized after a psychiatric evaluation deemed him unstable and dangerous.
But none of that mattered to Ethan.
Not when Lena was in surgery.
The fall down the stairs resulted in a severe concussion, three cracked ribs, and a fractured femur. The leg would need months of rehabilitation, a cast, and even then—there was no guarantee it would fully return to normal.
She was in the ICU for two days.
He never left the hospital.Barely ate.Didn't answer calls unless it was about her condition.
When she woke, groggy from morphine and exhaustion, the first thing she saw was him—unkempt, red-eyed, gripping her hand like it was the only thing anchoring him.
"I thought I lost you," he whispered, voice raw.
She gave a weak smile. "I thought I lost me too."
He kissed her hand.
And the next morning, before she could even ask where she was, he said,
"Let's get married, Lena. Today. Tomorrow. Whenever you want. But not someday. I can't waste another one."