Eliana Bennett's heart hammered so violently she could feel the pulse in her throat, like her body was warning her to run even as her feet refused to move. Rafael's hand closed around her wrist—not harshly, but with a kind of desperate insistence that made her breath hitch. His touch was warm, familiar, painfully so, and it clashed against the cold storm swirling inside her.
She stopped mid-stride, her low heels skidding against the hospital's linoleum floor with a sharp, jarring scrape. The sterile bite of antiseptic filled the air, but beneath it lingered a faint trace of Rafael's cologne—sandalwood wrapped in citrus. A scent she once associated with comfort, late whispers, and the kind of safety she never thought she'd lose so stupidly. Now it was a reminder of shattered promises and nights spent staring at a silent phone.
