Bella's POV
I wake up in the stranger's arms, being carried through the rain.
My head throbs with pain. Everything is spinning. I try to focus on the man holding me, but all I can see is darkness and those steel gray eyes.
"Put me down," I mumble, my words slurring. "I can... I can walk..."
"You can't even keep your eyes open," he says. His voice is deep and calm, like he carries bleeding girls through alleys every day. "Stop fighting me."
I should be scared. A strange man is carrying me through the dark. But something about his voice makes me feel... safe? That doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense anymore.
"Why are you helping me?" I whisper.
He doesn't answer right away. Rain pours over both of us. I can feel his heart beating steadily against my cheek where it rests on his chest.
"Because someone should have helped me once," he finally says. "And no one did."
Before I can ask what he means, he stops walking. I hear a car door open.
"Wait—" Panic floods through me. "Where are you taking me?"
"Hospital. You're bleeding badly." He sets me gently in the back seat of an expensive car. The leather is soft and smells like money. "You probably have a concussion."
"No!" I try to sit up, but pain explodes in my skull. I fall back with a gasp. "I can't go to a hospital. They'll find me. My father—he'll—"
"Your father just disowned you in front of two hundred people," the stranger says quietly. "I don't think he's looking for you."
The truth of his words hits me like another slap. My father doesn't want me. Marcus doesn't want me. No one wants me.
I'm completely alone.
Tears pour down my face, mixing with rain and blood. "Then just leave me in the alley. Let me die there. What's the point of—"
"Don't." His voice turns sharp, almost angry. "Don't you dare give up that easily."
He climbs into the car beside me. In the dim light, I finally get a better look at him. He's young—maybe early thirties. Dark hair plastered to his head from the rain. Sharp, handsome features. And those eyes—gray like storm clouds, intense and unreadable.
He's also soaking wet and covered in my blood, but he doesn't seem to care about his expensive suit being ruined.
"Who are you?" I ask.
"Someone who was in your position five years ago." He pulls out his phone. "Someone who survived. And you will too."
"You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly." He's typing on his phone now, not looking at me. "You were betrayed by people you loved. Destroyed publicly. Lost everything in one night. You think your life is over and nothing matters anymore."
I stare at him, shocked. "How do you—"
"Because that's exactly what happened to me." He finally looks at me again, and there's something dark and painful in his eyes. "When I was ten years old, I watched my parents get murdered. The killer carved a letter into their bodies and left them to die while I hid in a closet. Afterward, everyone blamed my father for being 'careless.' They said he deserved it for being weak."
My breath catches. "That's horrible—"
"I survived," he continues, his voice hard. "I got strong. I made myself into someone who could never be hurt like that again. And that's what you're going to do."
He hands me his phone. On the screen is a hospital admission form, already filled out. But the name isn't Isabelle Hartley.
It says "Jane Smith."
"Fake name," he explains. "I'm taking you to a private hospital. One of my doctors will see you, fix your head, and no one will ask questions or report anything. You'll disappear completely."
"Why would you do this for me?" I whisper. "You don't even know me."
"Let's just say I don't like watching innocent people get destroyed by monsters." He starts the car. "Consider this your first lesson in survival: accept help when it's offered. Pride will only get you killed."
The car starts moving. I should be asking more questions. I should be demanding to know his name. But exhaustion and pain are pulling me under like waves.
"What happens after the hospital?" I manage to ask.
"That's up to you." His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. "You can crawl back to your father and beg for forgiveness. You can believe the lies they told about you and accept that you're worthless." He pauses. "Or you can disappear. Start over. Become someone new. Someone strong enough to make them all regret what they did."
"How?" My voice breaks. "I have nothing. No money, no friends, no family—"
"You have yourself." He sounds almost fierce now. "That's all you need. Everything else is just noise."
The car stops. We're parked behind a small, clean-looking building. No signs. No lights. Nothing to show it's a hospital.
The stranger gets out and opens my door. He lifts me out carefully, like I'm made of glass that might shatter.
"Last chance," he says softly. "I take you inside, you're committing to survival. To fighting back. To becoming someone those people will fear someday. Can you do that?"
I think about Marcus's cold eyes. My father's slap. Vivian's satisfied smile.
Something hot and fierce burns in my chest. It's not hope—hope is dead. It's something darker. Stronger.
Rage.
"Yes," I whisper. "I can do that."
He smiles slightly. It's not a nice smile. It's the smile of someone who knows what it's like to want revenge.
"Good girl."
He carries me toward the building. A door opens, and warm light spills out. A woman in scrubs appears—a doctor, I think.
"Damien," she says, shocked. "What happened?"
Damien. So that's his name.
"Head wound, possible concussion, definitely in shock," Damien says, all business now. "She needs treatment. Full privacy protocol. And Sarah—no one can know she's here. No records under her real name."
The doctor—Sarah—nods quickly. "Bring her to exam room three."
As Damien carries me inside, my vision starts to blur again. The pain medication they must have given me is kicking in.
"Damien," I mumble. "Why does your name sound familiar?"
"Rest," he says. "We'll talk when you wake up."
But I catch something in his voice. Something that sounds almost like... guilt?
"Wait..." I fight to stay conscious. "Did you... did you know this was going to happen to me tonight?"
The question hangs in the air. Damien's arms tense around me.
"Sleep, Bella," he says, not answering. "When you wake up, things will be different."
"That's not an answer—"
"No," he says quietly. "It's not."
He sets me on a hospital bed. Dr. Sarah starts checking my injuries, speaking in medical terms I don't understand. But I keep my eyes on Damien.
He's backing toward the door, like he's about to leave.
"Will I see you again?" I ask, suddenly panicked. He's a stranger, but he's the only person who's helped me tonight. I don't want him to disappear.
Damien pauses in the doorway. "Maybe. If you survive long enough to become interesting."
"What does that mean?"
"It means stop being a victim." His gray eyes bore into mine. "Victims die. Survivors become dangerous. Choose which one you want to be."
Then he's gone.
Dr. Sarah puts a mask over my face. "Breathe deeply. This will help with the pain."
Gas fills my lungs. Sweet and heavy. My eyes drift closed.
Just before I fall unconscious, I hear Dr. Sarah whisper to someone on the phone:
"She's here. Yes, the Hartley girl. No, she doesn't know anything yet. Should I tell her the truth about who Damien really is? About why he was at that party tonight?"
My heart pounds. Truth? What truth?
Was Damien at my engagement party?
Did he know what was going to happen?
I try to fight the gas, try to stay awake and hear more, but it's too strong.
Darkness swallows me whole, and the last thought I have is terrifying:
What if the man who saved me is connected to the people who destroyed me?