The sterile smell of antiseptic hit her first.

It made her nauseous.

"Isabella? You're awake?" The voice was familiar. Warm. Laced with deep concern.

She turned her head slowly. The movement sent a sharp pain through her neck. Her vision was blurry, but it cleared enough to see Lucas sitting beside the bed. He looked exhausted. Yet, relief was clear in his eyes.

"Where... am I?" Her throat was raw. The words came out as a scratchy whisper.

"Geneva," Lucas answered softly. He reached for a glass of water on the bedside table. "I handled everything." He handed her the glass. His tone was gentle but firm. "Just concentrate on healing. We can figure out the rest later."

She took the glass. The cool water was a relief on her parched throat. A small comfort against the lingering ache. "Thank you, Lucas," she murmured. Her eyes met his, filled with quiet gratitude. "I don't know how I can ever repay you."

Lucas offered a small smile. But something unreadable flickered in his gaze. A hint of hesitation. "Actually... about Ethan..." he began, his voice cautious.

"Don't," Isabella cut him off sharply. "I don't want to hear his name. I am done with the past."

Lucas paused. A heavy silence fell between them. After a moment, he simply nodded. "Alright. Get some rest then."

He stood up. His footsteps were quiet as he moved to the door. He stopped there, his hand on the knob. He seemed to want to say something more. But he didn't. He just slipped out, closing the door silently behind him.

Alone, Isabella released a shaky breath. Her hand moved to rest on her still-flat stomach. Beneath her palm, she imagined she could feel it. A tiny, fragile pulse of life. A warmth spread through her chest, pushing back some of the fear.

If that black car had veered just a few more inches...

The thought was a cold knife in her gut. She could be in a morgue right now. Cold. Lifeless. The little life inside her extinguished before it even began.

A violent shudder wracked her body. Pure terror washed over her in a cold wave. But mixed with the fear was something else. A powerful, overwhelming relief. A fierce, bittersweet joy that she had made it. They had made it.

A single tear escaped. It traced a path down her cheek and soaked into the stark white hospital sheet. A silent mark of everything she felt but could not say.

Isabella closed her eyes. She drew a deep, steadying breath. She tried to calm the storm of fear and sorrow raging inside her.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow would be different.

Caleb was thrown onto the cold concrete. The impact jarred his bound body. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. A stark red against his pale skin. It began to pool on the floor beneath him.

Ethan stood over him. His eyes were ice cold. Sharp. A predator looking down at his trapped prey.

"Who gave the order?" His voice was low. Steady. But it carried a deadly edge.

Caleb let out a rough, guttural laugh. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. The crimson splatter was vivid in the dim light. "Do your worst," he sneered. Defiance burned in his eyes.

Without a word, Ethan reached into his suit jacket. He pulled out a photograph. He tossed it onto the floor in front of Caleb. The glossy image landed with a soft slap.

In the photo, a woman was leaning intimately against a man. Their faces were not clear. But their closeness was undeniable.

"Who is the man with her?" Ethan's voice dropped lower. The words cut through the tense air like a sharp blade.

Caleb's eyes flicked to the photo. A twisted grin spread across his bloodied lips. A hoarse, almost crazed laugh escaped him. "Care to take a guess?" he taunted, his voice dripping with mockery.