The Billionaire's Dark Secret: Deja vu

“ Do you think the rain is ever going to stop?” Rowell asked, leaning on the nurses’ station counter, his mug of coffee steaming under the bright fluorescent lights.

Clarisa Thomas smiled faintly, tapping a few notes into her tablet. “Not tonight. The weather app in my phone says we’re under a thunderstorm warning till morning. At least it’s washing off the city’s grime and rot.”

Rowell chuckled “you mean grime and rot and regret. DeVille is cleansing itself.”

Clarisa laughed lightly, “Maybe it should start with the ER waiting room,” she replied dryly, glancing toward the corridor where two teenagers argued over a sprained wrist.

The hospital was unexpectedly calm that night except for the soft whirr of machines and the faint smell of antiseptic which is typical of hospitals. The walls of the hospital was painted white, spotless. Outside, the storm continued to rage, thunder rumbling loudly.

It was just past midnight, the quietest hour of the shift. Clarisa exhaled, rolling her shoulders. She had been working twelve-hour rotations all week and now, her badge felt heavy, her eyelids felt even heavier. Rowell sighed. “You ever think about leaving this place? Doing something easier?” , Clarisa stared at him with feigned interest “Like what? Waitressing?” she asked jokingly.

“No,” he said, grinning. “Something glamorous. You’ve got that calm, steady voice. You could be one of those med-commercial narrators. ‘Trust DeVille Central. We’ll keep your heart beating.’” Rowell mimicked.

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “And leave all this excitement? Never.” As if on cue, a shrill alarm split the air. The ER call board lit up red. TRAUMA ALERT: incoming, ETA two minutes.

Rowell’s grin vanished. “Here we go.”

Clarisa’s heart raced wildly, her fatigue forgotten. She tossed the tablet aside and tightened her ponytail. “Let’s move.”

The intercom buzzed: “All emergency staff to bay two. Single occupant, vehicular collision.”

She jogged down the corridor, her white sneakers squeaking faintly on the waxed floor. The automatic doors clicked open, and cold air swept in — rain-scented. The wail of sirens drew closer, echoing and sharp it always startled her.

An ambulance screeched to a halt. Its headlights piercing into the stormy night.

“On three!” a paramedic shouted as they swung open the back doors. Clarisa grabbed the side of the stretcher as the patient was rolled, his face looked bloodied, he lay motionless, his breathing shallow through an oxygen mask. The man’s suit, or what was left of it, clung to him wet and torn to shred. His chest rose unevenly, his face half-hidden beneath tangled dark hair.

“Single occupant, crash on Eastbridge. Lost control on the slick turn. Car’s totaled,” one of the paramedics; Mario shouted over the storm. “Possible head trauma, fractured ribs, deep lacerations.”

“Name?” Clarisa demanded, her voice Sharp but calm.

“Chris Vale,” Mario said. “ID was inside his wallet. The Chris Vale.” Mario said again in awe.

Clarisa blinked, shocked by the identity of the patient. The Chris Vale? Billionaire CEO of ValeCorp, the man whose face appeared on finance magazines and in whispered scandals about hostile takeovers and broken companies? It didn’t matter. Right now, he was just another patient who needed saving.

“Let’s get him inside,” Dr. Martins called, appearing beside her, already wearing gloves. “Clarisa, you’re on vitals. Rowell, prep oxygen and saline.”

They rushed him down the bright corridor. The wheels of the stretcher rattled across the tile floor. Machines beeped immediately they turned them on in the trauma room.

“His blood pressure is dropping,” Clarisa said quickly, watching the monitor flash red. “Seventy over forty and falling.”

“Epinephrine, ten milligrams,” Doctor Martins ordered. Clarisa moved fast, grabbing the syringe. The room was tensed, the metallic scent of blood mixing with sterile disinfectant. Monitors hummed, suction tubes gurgled, gloves snapped. Everything felt heightened , the noise, the lights, the thundering pulse in her ears.

“Pulse irregular,” Rowell muttered.

“Stay with me, Mr. Vale,” Clarisa whispered, leaning close as she administered the injection. His skin was clammy and cold under her touch, his jawline smeared with drying blood. for a moment, his fingers twitched, a tiny movement, but enough to make her pause. His lips parted slightly, as though he wanted to speak.

Then the monitor screamed, “Flatline!”

“CPR, now!” Doctor Martins barked. Clarisa didn’t hesitate. She pressed both palms to his chest and started compressions. “Come on, come on.......” Her voice broke into rhythm with each thrust. The room suddenly felt airtight to her. She felt like it was just her and him, and the space between life and death.

“Charging......... clear!”

The defibrillator paddles discharged. Chris’s body jerked violently, then fell still.

Clarisa held her breath, fear of loosing him creeping in, sweat streamed along her hairline.

“Again! Clear!”

Another surge ran through Chris's body, his chest arched.

Then suddenly a beep, faint at first, then it gradually became steady. Beep, beep. beep.

“Pulse is back,” Clarisa exhaled, trembling. Relief flooded her veins. “He’s stabilizing.”

Dr. Martins nodded, wiping his brow with a towel. “Good work guys, get him to ICU for monitoring. Head CT, full scan, keep him under observation.” Clarisa swallowed hard, forcing her heartbeat to slow. “Yes, doctor.”

As the stretcher rolled out, she lingered for a second, staring at the man’s face , it looked peaceful now, his mouth slightly parted. He didn’t look like a ruthless billionaire. He looked… human, vulnerable. almost boyish.

“Clarisa!” Rowell’s voice snapped her out of it. She nodded quickly and followed.

********************

Two days later the storm in DeVille had subsided although rain still drummed against the hospital windows. The ICU ward glowed with soft blue light from machines. Chris Vale lay unconscious, surrounded by the quiet hum of technology. Clarisa sat beside his bed, charting vitals. His recovery was steady, but slow. No visitors came for him, no family. His assistant had called once to check his status, his voice sounded businesslike.

She caught herself studying his face again. Clean-shaven now, the bruises fading into purples and yellows. Beneath the bandages, she could see the faint outline of strength...a man accustomed to control, now stripped of it completely.

“You’re staring again,” Rowell said behind her, breaking the silence in the room.

Clarisa jumped slightly. “I am monitoring.”

“Sure. Monitoring his bone structure?” He grinned, setting down a cup of coffee beside her.

“Shut up,” she muttered, with a faint smile on her lips.

“ This guy is infamous, you know. Ruthless. My uncle used to work for ValeCorp, he said Chris Vale would gut a company just to raise profits one percent.”

Clarisa’s smile faded. “That’s not exactly comforting.”

“Just saying. Be careful when he wakes up.”

She looked at the sleeping man. When he wakes up… The thought stirred something uneasy in her chest — not fear, but anticipation.

The next morning, Clarisa was checking his IV when a sound made her freeze. He whispered, raspy and faint.

“Clarisa…”

Her breath hitched, had she heard him right? She leaned closer. “Mr. Vale? Can you hear me?” she asked gently. His eyelids fluttered, slowly, he opened his eyes : gray, piercing, and disoriented. For a long moment he just stared at her with confusion in his face. Then, his expression softened.

“Clarisa,” he said again, this time firmer, as if he recognized her. “Don’t leave me again.” The words startled her. Again? what did he mean by that?

“I..... I think you’re confused,” she stammered checking his pulse out of habit.

But he caught her wrist with surprising strength. His hand was warm now, and steady.

“You came back,” he whispered, his eyes glassy. “You always said you would.”

“Mr. Vale........”

“Chris,” he corrected weakly, a small smile forming. “Call me Chris. My fiancée shouldn’t be so formal.”

Clarisa froze. Fiancée?

Rowell, who had just stepped in, blinked. “Uh, what did he just say?”

Clarisa ignored him, trying to keep her voice calm. “Chris, you’ve been in an accident. You’re in the hospital. I am your nurse.” But Chris only looked at her with the soft, bewildered affection of someone seeing a ghost. “You’re safe… thank God. I thought I lost you.”

Clarisa exchanged a helpless glance with Rowell. “He’s disoriented,” she whispered. “Possible retrograde amnesia.”

Rowell nodded slowly. “Well, your fiancé looks pretty happy to see you.” She felt heat rise to her cheeks and immediately scolded herself. He’s a patient. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

But when she turned back to Chris he was looking at her, his expression raw, unguarded, painfully sincere.

“Don’t go,” he murmured. “Please, Clarisa.”

And somehow, she couldn’t move.

Later that night, after his condition had stabilized and she finished her rounds, Clarisa lingered outside his room again. Through the glass, she watched him sleep. His breathing was slow, rhythmic. The storm had finally ended; moonlight spilled through the windows of the hospital giving the machines a silvery glow.

Something sparkled faintly near his wrist, curious, Clarisa stepped inside quietly. The faint sound of monitors filled the silence soft, constant, like a lullaby. She reached for the blanket to adjust it.

That’s when she saw it.

A platinum ring on his left hand. Not on his ring finger, but hanging from a thin chain around his wrist like a charm. The metal gleamed under the light, engraved faintly along the inner band. Clarisa leaned closer, squinting her eyes to inspect the ring. The inscription was delicate, etched in looping cursive.

C.T. Her initials, engraved in the ring.

Her stomach dropped. She stared at the ring, her pulse pounding in her ears. What…? He didn’t know her before this. He couldn’t have. And yet........

Chris stirred in his sleep, his lips moving silently. For a moment, she thought she heard her name again. Clarisa took a step back, her heart racing. The monitor beeped steadily beside him, indifferent to the chaos rising inside her.

She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, staring at the engraved ring with disbelief.