Faking It With My Billionaire Husband

sixteen

The note burned in my palm like a secret I wasn’t meant to hold. Trust no one. The words echoed in my mind with an intensity that made the shadows in the room seem alive. I read them again, tracing the sharp, hurried strokes of the letters. Whoever wrote this hadn’t taken their time—it was rushed, frantic, desperate. That only made my pulse pound harder.

I slipped the note beneath my pillow just as the door creaked open.

The nurse—Sarah—entered with a tray, her expression as calm as ever. The scent of antiseptic trailed behind her, cutting through the stale air. I forced my breathing to steady, forcing myself to look tired, vulnerable.

“Awake still?” she asked softly, adjusting the IV line with practiced hands. “You should try to rest.”

“I… couldn’t sleep.” My voice wavered just enough to sound believable. “Too many thoughts.”

Her lips curved into something between sympathy and detachment, the kind of smile nurses probably used every day. “That’s normal, especially after what you’ve been through. Your mind’s still healing.”

But I couldn’t help noticing the way her gaze flicked toward Max’s bed, just for a second too long, as though checking something she didn’t want me to see.

“Will he wake up soon?” I asked, watching her carefully.

Sarah paused, her hands hovering over the tray before she picked up a small vial. “The doctors are doing everything they can. Right now, the best thing for him is stability.”

It was a careful answer. Too careful. I swallowed hard. “And the woman… his fiancée? She seemed so sure about everything.”

A faint flicker crossed Sarah’s face, gone in an instant. She busied herself with adjusting the blanket around Max, avoiding my eyes. “Family can be… complicated during times like these. Emotions run high. Don’t let it overwhelm you.”

Her tone was meant to be soothing, but it only unsettled me more. I pressed my hand discreetly against the pillow, reassuring myself the note was still there.

Sarah finished her tasks quickly, her movements efficient, controlled. Then she gave me a final nod. “Try to get some rest. You’ll need your strength.”

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving me alone with the hum of machines and the steady rhythm of Max’s heartbeat on the monitor.

I exhaled shakily. Trust no one. The words wouldn’t leave me. Not Sarah. Not the fiancée. Maybe not even the doctors.

My gaze slid back to Max. His face was pale in the glow of the monitors, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that seemed both fragile and eternal. I leaned closer, whispering so softly it was almost just for me.

“Did you write it? Was it you trying to warn me?”

But he didn’t stir. Only the machines answered, beeping softly in the dark.

I settled back in the chair, exhaustion pressing down on me, but my mind wouldn’t let go of the note. If there were secrets here—buried beneath white walls and sterile uniforms—I had to start looking. Even if I wasn’t sure who I was anymore, I had to find out what was real.

The hours stretched thin. At some point, I must have drifted into a shallow, uneasy sleep, because the next thing I knew, a faint sound tugged me awake.

Footsteps.

Slow, deliberate. Not from the hallway, but inside the room.

My eyes snapped open, but I forced my body to stay still, feigning sleep. Through slitted eyes, I saw a figure moving at the edge of the shadows. Tall, broad-shouldered—not Sarah, not the fiancée. He moved with the quiet precision of someone who didn’t want to be noticed.

My heart thudded so loudly I thought he’d hear it.

He approached Max’s bed first, leaning down, checking something by his IV line. I caught the faint glint of metal in his hand—something small, sharp. A syringe?

Panic surged through me, but I bit down on my instinct to cry out. Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

The man hesitated, then glanced toward me. I shut my eyes completely, praying he wouldn’t notice. For a moment, the silence stretched so unbearably that I thought I’d scream.

Then—soft footsteps retreated. A rustle of fabric. The faint sound of the door opening, then closing.

I snapped upright, my chest heaving. The room was empty again. Max lay undisturbed, his monitors steady, but I couldn’t shake the image of that shadowy figure standing over him.

My hands trembled as I reached for the pillow again, clutching the folded note like it was the only lifeline I had. Trust no one.

Now I understood.

Whoever that man was—whatever he wanted—Max wasn’t safe here. Neither was I.

I leaned forward, gripping Max’s limp hand, my whisper urgent. “We have to get out of here. I don’t know how, but I’ll find a way. I promise.”

And in the dim, sterile room, with the note pressed to my chest and the taste of fear sharp in my mouth, I knew one thing with absolute certainty:

The hospital wasn’t a place of healing. It was a prison. And someone wanted to make sure Max never woke up.