Chapter Fifty Eight

It had felt like hell waiting for the surgery to end. Time stretched endlessly as Isa stood in the hallway, eyes darting to the door, desperate for a doctor to step out.

Now, she sat beside Chris, clutching his warm hand in both of hers. He lay unconscious on the bed, his face pale, lips tinged purple. The hospital gown made him look even thinner than before.

Isa’s chest tightened as she studied his face, every word from the doctor echoing in her mind.

“Mr. Alder is stable now, but he’ll need another surgery soon. His tumor is worsening, which is why his panic attacks have been increasing. If we delay, I fear we may lose him.”

Isa had nodded then, though her heart trembled. She didn’t know how he’d react, but she’d made up her mind. She would not let him push her away, not until he agreed to the surgery and had a chance at healing.

She placed her other hand over his, sandwiching his hand between hers.

“He must have been in so much pain,” she whispered, watching the slight frown on his face, his brows furrowing even in sleep.

Her mind drifted back—how he had gripped her arms when she opened the secret shelf in his studio, dragging her into his sitting room with a force that betrayed fear more than anger.

Her lips curved into a bittersweet smile as she remembered him acting nonchalant in his office, avoiding her gaze, opening and closing his mouth in silence when he caught her by the secret shelf with the pictures scattered in the open.

Yes, he had cared.

Her smile wavered as tears pricked her eyes. She saw again the moment he had taken the bullet for her. Tears slid down her cheeks like rain tracing a windowpane. He was lying here because of her.

He was hurting as much as she was.

“Chris is dangerous. Have you ever wondered why he kept everyone away? Why he was always cold, always cruel?”

Alex’s words echoed in her mind.

Did Chris believe he was dangerous to me too?

Maybe he thought I’d die like Stacy.

Isa imagined Stacy as kind-hearted, gentle—and her chest ached. Alex had gone too far, killing everyone close to Chris in the name of revenge. He might have earned her sympathy if he hadn’t tried to kill her, too. But Stacy… poor Stacy. How must Chris have felt when she died?

He must have blamed himself.

Isa wiped her tears and sniffled. No, she couldn’t break down now. She had to be strong for Chris. She had to convince him to take the surgery he kept refusing. He had to live. It was time for a new beginning.

—

Two days had passed since Chris had opened his eyes. Isa hadn’t left his side, caring for him day and night. This morning, when he awoke to see her resting her head by his bed, sleeping peacefully, it felt unreal. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had stayed by him through the night.

A bittersweet smile tugged at his lips. Slowly, he lifted his hand and cupped her face, his thumb brushing her cheek. Warmth spread through his chest, tangled with the sharp ache of guilt.

Everyone had died because of him. Stacy. His uncle’s daughter. The guilt of their deaths weighed on him like chains. Isa could have died too—if he hadn’t discovered Alex’s identity in time.

The thought of Isa lying cold on a tiled floor made his hand tremble against her cheek.

His throat burned as he held back tears. He didn’t want to think about what his father had done, but the truth gnawed at him. His father had left that day wearing his black cap, and returned without it. Later, Alex’s sister had come to the hospital with that same cap—caked in dust, reeking of smoke—saying Alex had kept it all these years, unable to let go of the past.

Chris’s eyes shifted toward the cap resting on the shelf. He swallowed hard. Should he even blame Alex? He imagined himself losing his pregnant mother, his father stolen away—and his chest twisted. He grimaced and looked away.

Pulling his hand back from Isa’s face, he drew in a shaky breath.

“You have to take the surgery, Chris. Now you know you’re not cursed. You have to live.”

Her voice echoed in his mind.

He smiled bitterly. He wanted to live—but what about the lives already lost? Would his mind ever be free? Could guilt ever let him go?

A soft moan stirred him from his thoughts. Isa blinked awake, her eyes meeting his.

“You’re awake?” she asked softly.

Chris nodded, unable to look away. Color rushed to her cheeks and she quickly glanced down, smoothing the already neat bedsheet.

“Do you need anything?” she asked, glancing back at him.

Chris looked away too, recalling her words, her desperate plea for him to take the surgery and start over. He had wanted to tell her then—but he couldn’t. He couldn’t erase Stacy. He couldn’t break the promise he made to her.

He knew Isa loved him, and he couldn’t deny his feelings for her anymore. But they weren’t meant to be. At best, they could only be friends—briefly. He needed to tell her now. She couldn’t keep waiting for him.

There were only two days left until the exclusive exhibition, and a week until the international one. His focus had to shift there. Afterward, he would sell the company to the government, donate the money to orphans, and quietly wait for his end.

“Are you okay?” Isa’s gentle voice pulled him back.

Chris opened his mouth, closed it again, then turned fully to her, eyes dropping to her hands fiddling with the sheet.

“I know you care about me, Isa,” he said at last, his voice rough.

When he finally looked up, their eyes locked.

“But I’m sorry.” His gaze broke. “I can’t do the surgery.” He shook his head. “I don’t deserve to live.”

Isa’s eyes widened. She grabbed his hands. “Why? Alex—”

“I know.” His voice was firm now. “And that’s exactly why. I can’t wash away the guilt of what my father did to him.”

Disbelief flashed across Isa’s face. “Don’t you get it, Chris?” Her voice shook. “He killed everyone you had—your wife, and he almost killed me. Yes, he’s hurting too, but he went too far. None of that was your fault!”

Chris gently pulled his hands from hers.

Isa’s gaze dropped to their empty space. Her fingers twisted together.

“I know I’m ungrateful to you,” Chris whispered, the room heavy with silence. “And I’m sorry. But my mind is made up.”

The silence pressed in, suffocating, until Isa broke it with a choked question.

“You don’t care how I’ll feel once you’re gone?”

Chris pressed his lips together, trembling, rubbing his face as tears burned his eyes.

“I’m sorry. But I’m miserable because of the lives lost because of me.” His voice cracked. “I need you to promise me something.”

He met her tearful gaze. Her throat bobbed, her hands clutching the sheet.

“Promise me you’ll be happy when I’m gone. Promise you won’t suffer for me—I deserve it, not you.” His eyes darkened. “Promise me, Isa.”

Her head shook violently, lips trembling, eyes swimming with tears.

Chris’s chest burned. His vision blurred. “Promise me, Isa. Tell me you’ll be fine.”

“I don’t know!” she cried, her voice breaking. “I don’t know!” She collapsed against him, wrapping her arms around him, burying her face in his chest.

Chris winced as her hot tears soaked his shirt. He dug his nails into the bedsheet, forcing himself not to embrace her back, even as every sob pierced him like an arrow through the heart.

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