The smell of antiseptic filled the air.
The hum of machines echoed faintly in the sterile hospital room, like ghosts whispering in a language no one understood. White walls, white sheets, white lights—a blank canvas. The kind meant for healing. Or forgetting.
Agnes lay still.
Her face was pale, too still, too quiet for someone once full of grace and calculated rebellion. A bandage wrapped her shoulder, stark against her skin. Tubes and wires connected her to a system designed to keep her alive, yet nothing felt alive in that room. Only waiting.
Majek sat in the chair beside her bed.
Unshaven. Wrinkled shirt. Bloodstained collar. Eyes hollow.
He hadn't spoken in hours. The doctors had already come and gone. She was stable, they said. Not out of the woods. Not fully conscious. But stable.
He hadn't eaten.
The police had let him stay for now. Technicalities. Witness accounts. Chaos.
But he knew what was coming.
Lami had been arrested at the scene, but so had he.
Because the bullet had struck Agnes while she stood between two men. One enraged, one in love. And stories never cared for nuances when blood was involved.
He reached for her hand again. She didn't flinch, but she didn't move either. Her skin was cold. Fragile.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered.
His voice cracked.
"This is all my fault. If I had just kept my distance, maybe..."
His grip tightened slightly.
"But I couldn't. God help me, I couldn't pretend you didn't matter."
No response. Not even a twitch.
He rested his forehead against the side of the bed, his tears falling silently.
The door creaked open.
Mr. Smith entered, flanked by two security officers.
Majek straightened up slowly. The older man's expression was a storm masked in marble—controlled, but deadly.
"Leave us," Mr. Smith told the guards.
They hesitated, glanced at Majek, then nodded and stepped out.
Mr. Smith walked over to the bed and looked down at his daughter. His lips trembled, just slightly, before he forced them still.
"They say she might not remember what happened," he said quietly. "A clean slate, they called it."
Majek didn't respond.
"You were supposed to stay away from her."
Still no reply.
"She was never meant to be yours. This—this disaster—is what happens when people forget their place."
Majek finally looked at him, his voice low. "With all due respect, sir, people aren't property."
Mr. Smith's jaw clenched.
"Your father was a good man," he said, circling the bed. "He would never have allowed this kind of disgrace. He believed in legacy. Honor."
Majek stood. "My father believed in dignity. Something Lami clearly forgot."
A pause.
Then a slow nod.
"You think you know who the villain is in this story. But you don't. Because you still think this is about love."
"Isn't it?" Majek asked.
Mr. Smith leaned in, voice colder. "This is about power. About bloodlines and preservation. My daughter was meant to marry into an empire. Not a cubicle."
Majek's hands curled into fists.
"She almost died," he said. "Does that mean nothing to you?"
Mr. Smith turned back toward the bed.
"Everything means something. Which is why I'll do what I must to protect her."
Majek stared. "What are you planning?"
Mr. Smith didn't answer directly.
He only said, "If she wakes up and doesn't remember you, don't remind her. If you love her, let her start clean. Without you."
Majek opened his mouth, but no words came.
Because somewhere deep inside, he knew it might be true.
Mr. Smith left.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Three Days Later
Agnes blinked.
It started with light.
Then sounds.
Then pain.
The dull, radiating ache in her shoulder was the first full sensation. Then the weight of her limbs. Then the strange itch of bandages.
She opened her eyes fully.
The room was unfamiliar.
Sterile. White. Cold.
She turned her head slowly and saw a nurse dozing in the corner. Machines blinked beside her bed.
She licked her lips.
"Water," she croaked.
The nurse woke instantly, rushed to her side. "Miss Lewis! You're awake!"
She helped her sip from a cup, then called for the doctor. Within minutes, a flood of footsteps, questions, vitals being checked.
Then another voice.
"Agnes."
Her father.
She turned slowly to look at him. He looked older. Tired. His hand trembled when he reached for hers.
"Do you know who I am?"
She frowned.
"Dad," she said. The word felt natural.
Relief flooded his face.
"Do you know what happened?"
Agnes paused.
Her brow furrowed.
"There was a restaurant... and music. And then..."
She gasped suddenly.
"Gunshot. Someone was shot."
Her father nodded slowly. "You were. But you're safe now."
She reached up to her head. It throbbed.
"Who was I with?"
Mr. Smith hesitated.
"You were alone. It was a robbery attempt."
Agnes blinked.
"Alone?"
A flash.
Dark eyes.
Soft laughter.
A hand brushing hers.
Music.
Something familiar.
She winced. "I... I don't remember everything."
"That's okay," he said, brushing her hair back. "You need to rest."
But the seed of doubt had been planted.
In the following days, Mr. Smith controlled the narrative. The staff was briefed. No one mentioned Majek. Not even the nurses.
Agnes was flooded with flowers, cards, and messages from business associates and family friends. Lami's name was mentioned once in a statement about a "family emergency abroad."
And yet...
When alone, Agnes would close her eyes and see flickers.
A corridor. A laugh. The way someone said her name like a prayer.
She didn't remember the boy who had stood between her and a bullet.
But she felt his absence like a song half-remembered.
A melody that refused to be forgotten.
Meanwhile, Majek sat in a cold interrogation room.
A lawyer beside him. A folder on the table.
Photos.
The eatery.
Blood.
A gun.
Witness statements.
One line repeated in the report: "She jumped in front of him."
It was saving him.
But it didn't feel like salvation.
The state was dropping the charges. Lami was facing trial. But Majek?
He was told to walk away. Restart. Heal.
And forget.
Forget the girl who might never remember he existed.
Forget the love that nearly cost her life.
He stood outside the hospital once more.
Watched the light in her window.
And then he turned.
And walked away.
Not because he was weak.
But because love—real love—sometimes means letting go.
Even when the world has stopped breathing.