POV: Zayden
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I stood outside her hospital room, pacing the hallway like a madman. My shirt was still wrinkled from the club, and my hands wouldn't stop shaking.
The door creaked open, and the doctor stepped out, a clipboard in his hand and concern etched into every line on his face.
"Mr. Wolfe," he said, pulling me aside. "We've stabilized her, but you need to listen very carefully."
My heart clenched.
"She's showing signs of extreme emotional fatigue and physical burnout," he continued, his voice serious. "If she goes through another high-stress episode… it could push her into a coma."
The words knocked the air out of me.
"A coma?" I choked. "But… she just fainted—"
"Her body gave out," the doctor said grimly. "It wasn't just alcohol. It was everything. The stress. The heartbreak. The pressure."
I pressed a hand to my mouth.
"You said she's been drinking more frequently?"
I nodded.
The doctor's expression hardened. "Then stop her. And if you truly care about her, Mr. Wolfe… protect her. No more shocks. No more stress. And absolutely no more alcohol."
He gave me a long, final look before disappearing down the corridor.
I leaned against the wall, heart pounding. Guilt curled in my chest like a vice.
This was my fault.
All of it.
I walked into her hospital room quietly. The soft beeping of the machines was the only sound, except her slow, steady breathing.
She looked so small beneath the covers. Fragile. Like porcelain that had been cracked too many times.
I sat beside her and gently took her hand in mine.
"I'll take care of you," I whispered. "Even if you never forgive me… I'll protect you. I swear."
Her lashes fluttered.
But she didn't wake up.
Not yet.