Pain pulsed through my leg in relentless waves, each throb a cruel reminder of my fall. The harsh fluorescent lights of Cedars-Sinai's general ward buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly glow. I shifted against the thin hospital mattress, wincing as another spike of agony shot up from my fractured femur.
"Nurse?" My voice came out as a rasp. My throat felt like sandpaper, my lips cracked from dehydration. "Could I please have some water?"
The nurse at the station glanced up, then quickly averted her eyes. It was the third time I'd asked in the past hour. The same response—nothing.
I pressed the call button again, watching the light illuminate above my bed. The fever that had started as a low simmer was now burning through me, my hospital gown clinging to my sweat-soaked skin.
From somewhere down the hall, I could hear the soft murmur of voices, the occasional burst of laughter. The private wing—where Gabriel was undoubtedly fussing over Scarlett's "emotional distress" while I lay here with actual broken bones.
"I'm sorry, but Mr. Sterling left specific instructions," a nurse had whispered earlier, her eyes full of uncomfortable pity. "You're to remain here until... until other arrangements can be made."
Other arrangements. As if I were luggage to be stored away, an inconvenience to be managed. I closed my eyes, feeling a tear slide down my temple and into my hair.
Eight years. Eight years of my life given to a man who couldn't even ensure I received proper care after an injury sustained working for his production.
The ward door swung open with such force it slammed against the wall. The sound cut through the quiet hum of medical equipment like a thunderclap.
"Where is she?" The voice was deep, commanding—and achingly familiar.
I struggled to sit up, ignoring the pain that tore through my leg. "Alex?"
My brother's tall figure strode down the corridor, his tailored suit at odds with the utilitarian hospital surroundings. The staff scattered before him like leaves in a storm. His face, so like my father's, was set in hard lines I recognized from Morgan Tech boardroom photographs—the expression he wore when someone was about to be destroyed.
"Isabella." His eyes found mine, softening for just a moment before hardening again as he took in my condition. He flashed something at the nurse who had materialized at his side—his credentials, the weight of the Morgan name making her step back.
"Sir, this area is—"
"My sister will be moved immediately." His tone left no room for argument. "Prepare to transfer her to the private wing."
"I'm afraid that's not possible," the nurse stammered. "Mr. Sterling specifically requested—"
"I don't give a damn what Sterling requested." Alexander's voice dropped to a dangerous quiet. "Either you move her now, or I'll have my legal team here within the hour to discuss patient neglect."
The nurse paled, nodding quickly before hurrying away. Alexander moved to my bedside, his expression softening as he gently took my hand.
"You're burning up," he murmured, pressing his cool palm against my forehead.
"How did you know?" I whispered.
"Frank Miller called me. Said you'd been injured and..." His jaw tightened. "And that your husband seemed more concerned about his co-star's feelings than your broken leg."
Before I could respond, commotion erupted in the hallway. Gabriel's voice carried through the ward, sharp with indignation.
"You can't just barge in here! This is a private medical facility, and I have every right—"
"Your rights end where my sister's begin." Alexander's voice was ice as he stepped into the corridor.
I could see them through the doorway—Gabriel blocking the entrance to what must have been his private suite, his perfect face flushed with anger. Alexander towered over him, the cold fury in his stance making Gabriel step back despite himself.
"Your sister?" Gabriel's confusion was genuine. "What are you talking about?"
"Isabella Morgan." Alexander enunciated each syllable with precision. "Daughter of William Morgan, heiress to Morgan Tech. My sister."
Gabriel's face drained of color. "That's impossible. Isabella is—"
"Not the nobody you've been treating like disposable property." Alexander moved forward, forcing Gabriel to step aside as he pushed past him.
I couldn't see what happened next, but moments later Alexander returned, his expression grim. He sat carefully on the edge of my bed, taking my hand in his.
"Bella," he said softly, using my childhood nickname. "Why didn't you call me?"
The tenderness in his voice broke something inside me. Tears spilled down my cheeks as the fever and pain and years of silent suffering converged.
"I thought..." My voice cracked. "I thought he loved me once. I thought if I just waited, if I was patient enough, supportive enough..."
"Oh, Bella." Alexander's eyes were pained.
"He doesn't even see me, Alex," I whispered, the truth I'd been running from finally catching up. "Today, when I fell... he ran to her. He didn't even look at me."
Alexander's hand tightened around mine. "No one knows, do they? About who you really are?"
I shook my head slightly. "Only you. I wanted to be loved for myself, not the Morgan name or fortune. And now..."
"Now you're lying in a general ward with a fever while your husband comforts another woman." Alexander's voice was gentle but firm. "This ends today, Bella. I'm taking you home."
As the words left his lips, the door to the private suite opened. Gabriel stood there, his expression unreadable as he stared at us, the truth of who I really was clearly sinking in—and with it, the magnitude of how he had treated the daughter of William Morgan all these years.
