Chapter 2

“Is it true it was Chris Vale?”

“Was he drunk?”

“Will ValeCorp release a statement?”

The corridor buzzed with noise, voices, and footsteps, camera flashes. Reporters pressed against the security barrier outside the ICU wing, shouting questions that no one bothered to answer.

Clarisa slipped through the chaos with a lowered gaze, holding her clipboard. The tension outside didn’t touch her expression, but it made her head ache. Every whisper, every headline had turned the hospital into a fishbowl. The staff could barely breathe without someone asking for a quote.

The doors slid open to the private ICU suite. The noise faded instantly, replaced by the soft, rhythmic beeping of machines.

There he was, Chris Vale. Still unconscious. Still beautiful in that disheveled, fragile way that only the broken could be.

He looked less like the monstrous tycoon the tabloids described and more like a fallen prince, his face pale, his hand resting loosely on the white sheets. Clarisa approached him quietly.

“Good morning, Mr. Vale,” she whispered, checking the monitors. “Your blood pressure is holding steady.”

She adjusted the IV line with careful precision, her fingers steady despite the pulse racing in her neck. She told herself it was just nerves: every nurse got attached to a patient now and then. But when she glanced at his face, something tugged deeper at her heart.

The platinum ring still glittered against his wrist. She hadn’t told anyone about it. Not even her bestie even Rowell. Because she knew she’d seen that ring before.

Years ago. Her father’s hand, warm, steady, guiding hers as he taught her to write her name. The ring had glimmered under the desk lamp that night, the same shape, the same faint engraving she had traced with her small fingers.

Her throat tightened. Her father had died when she was fifteen. He had worked for a tech subsidiary that ValeCorp had swallowed and then dismantled. His heart attack came soon after. She swallowed hard to free the lump in her throat forcing the memories down. Coincidence, that’s all it is.

The door opened behind her and Dr Martin peered into the room.

“Still no change?” Dr. Martins asked, his tone brisk.

“None,” Clarisa said softly. “Vitals stable, brain scan clear. He should’ve regained consciousness by now.”

Martins sighed, flipping through his notes. “Head trauma can be unpredictable. Keep monitoring. And if he wakes, page me immediately.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

When the doctor closed the door, silence reclaimed the room. Clarisa lingered in the room for a while unable to pull herself away.

She heard a faint sound from the heart monitoring machine. Beep… beep… pause… beep.

Her gaze shot to him, she noticed his fingers twitch, then his eyelids fluttered.

“Mr. Vale?” she whispered, leaning in. “Can you hear me?”

He spoke quietly, his voice croaky.

“Clarisa… where are you? Don’t leave me again…" Clarisa froze, too shocked to believe what she has heard.

Her name, he had spoken her name.

“Mr. Vale,” she said quickly, forcing her voice steady. “You’re in DeVille City Central Hospital. You’ve been in an accident. I’m your..........”

But then his eyes opened: Gray, stormy. disoriented but alive. He looked at her with recognition in his face.

“Clarisa…” he murmured, softer now, almost tender. “You came back.”

Her heartbeat thundered.

“Sir, you must’ve heard my name when the doctor said it earlier,” she replied, though her voice lacked conviction. His gaze drifted around the room, then back to her. “Where… where am I?”

“The hospital. You were in a car crash. You’ve been unconscious for two days.”

He frowned faintly, the crease between his brows deepening. “Two days…”

“Yes sir, you’re safe now. Try not to move.”

He didn’t seem to hear her. His hand moved weakly across the sheet, reaching for hers. The motion was clumsy but deliberate.

“Don’t go,” he whispered. “Not again.”

Her breath hitched when his fingers brushed hers. His grip was cold and trembling, yet strong enough to send a jolt straight to her chest.

“Mr. Vale, please. You need rest.........”

He squeezed her hand. “Chris,” he said, his voice barely audible. “You always call me Chris.”

She froze. Her mouth went dry. “I think you’re confused.....”

“No,” he interrupted softly, a faint smile curving his bruised lips. “My fiancée wouldn’t lie to me.”

Her pulse stuttered. “What did you just say?”

His gaze softened further, his gray eyes full of warmth “My fiancée,” he repeated. “You promised we would start over.”

Clarisa stared at the patient, unable to breathe. Trauma-induced delirium, she told herself. It had to be.

She gently tried to pull her hand free, but he held on, desperation showing in his face. “Please don’t leave me again,” he whispered. “You promised.”

Her throat tightened. “Chris, listen to me. You’re confused. You’ve been in an accident. You.......”

“I remember your voice,” he interrupted, his tone raw, almost pleading. “Even before I opened my eyes. It kept me alive.”

The words hit her like a blow. She could feel her heartbeat in her ears.

She wanted to step back, to build the professional wall she had spent years perfecting, but this patient was trying to break those walls. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The monitors beeped softly, filling the silence.

Finally, she said, “Rest. That’s what you need.”

He blinked slowly, exhaustion creeping back into his features. But he didn’t let go. “Stay,” he murmured.

Clarisa hesitated. Logic screamed to step away. Yet something kept her rooted there,

She sat back down, her hand still caught in his. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep,” she said quietly.

He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that made her chest ache. “You always say that,” he whispered before drifting off again.Clarisa stared at him, the rhythm of the monitors echoing the rhythm of her thoughts.

You always say that, what did that mean?

She looked down at their joined hands. His fingers, large and bruised, still circled hers protectively even in sleep. And there, just above his wrist, she saw it again.

The ring.

It shimmered faintly under the fluorescent light. Her initials engraved inside the band, impossible yet undeniable. A chill ran through her.

She reached out slowly, her fingertips brushing the metal. It felt warm and alive.

Her father’s ring had felt the same when she was a child, when he had told her that every soul carried its own light.

“Never forget,” he’d said. “Some lights recognize each other, even in the dark.”

Clarisa blinked hard, stepping back. Her heart pounded so loud she could hear it.

It was just a ring. It didn’t mean anything.

But the memory of her father’s voice and Chris’s whisper tangled together until she couldn’t tell them apart.

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

Later that afternoon, the sun began to shine replacing the gloomy aftermath of the storm. The press were still gathered beyond the hospital gates, but inside, the ICU was quieter.

Clarisa returned to check on him again. His color was better. His breathing even.

She hovered by the bed, trying to convince herself she was only doing her job. But when his eyes fluttered open again and found hers instantly, like he’d been waiting for her, her resolve crumbled.

“Hey,” she said softly, managing a professional smile. “You are awake again. That’s a good sign.”

He blinked, groggy but focused. “Clarisa…”

“You remember me?” she asked before she could stop herself.

He smiled weakly, “How could I forget my fiancée?” She sighed. “You really have to stop calling me that.”

“I can’t,” he murmured. “It’s who you are.”

His voice was stronger now, low and smooth, with an edge of charm that felt… dangerous.

Clarisa felt heat rise in her chest. “You’ve got a concussion,” she said quickly. “Confusion is normal.”

“Confusion?” His tone was gentle, teasing even. “Then why do I remember the way you laugh?”

“I think you should rest,” she said, flustered, stepping back. But when she turned to leave, his voice stopped her. “You wear your hair the same way,” he said softly.

She froze. “What?”

“The night I proposed,” he continued, eyes half-lidded. “You wore it like that. Tied back, with that little silver clip.”

Her pulse stumbled. That clip—she was wearing it now. It had belonged to her mother. There was no way he could have known.

She turned slowly, heart pounding. “Chris… how do you know that?”

He frowned faintly, pressing a hand to his temple. “I… I don’t know.”

“Then how......”

Before she could finish, the monitors spiked. His breathing hitched sharply, and he tried to sit up.

“Chris, no.....”

But he was already struggling to rise, sweat beading on his forehead. The IV tugged against his arm as he tried to stand.

“Stay still,” Clarisa said urgently, moving to hold him down. “You’ll tear your stitches.....”

“I need to see.....” His voice cracked as his legs buckled.

Then everything happened at once. The monitors screamed. The IV line snapped loose. Clarisa lunged forward and caught him just as he collapsed.

His weight slammed into her, knocking her back against the bed rail. His breath was hot against her neck, his pulse wild beneath her fingertips.

For a heartbeat, the world went still.

His hand slid instinctively to her waist, gripping for balance. Their faces were inches apart close enough that she could see the flecks of silver in his gray eyes, the faint scar near his lip, the rise and fall of his chest against hers.

“Clarisa…” he whispered, his breath shaky. “I’m not crazy. I know you.”

Her throat tightened. “You don’t.”

“Yes,” he breathed, his voice raw, urgent. “And you know me. Don’t you?”

She didn’t answer. Her heart pounded so violently it hurt.

For a moment, it felt like gravity itself had vanished, like they were suspended in something weightless and terrifyingly intimate. Then the door burst open. “What’s going on in here?” Dr. Martins barked.

Clarisa jerked back, helping Chris ease onto the bed. “He tried to stand, his IV came loose.”

Martins rushed forward. “why did you move, Mr. Vale. You could’ve reopened your sutures.”

Chris barely heard him. His gaze stayed fixed on Clarisa, unreadable and intense.

And as she stepped back, forcing herself to breathe, one thought shot through her mind:

He said my name before he even woke up. He wears my initials on his ring. And now he looks at me like he’s known me all his life.

She had never been more confused in her life, does he really know her?.