The massive white building with a golden cross crest rose in the distance. The most exclusive clinic in Madrid.

A large man in a black suit was already waiting inside the lobby. Dark glasses. “Señora.”

I nodded. “Is he awake?”

He shook his head, turned, and started walking. I followed him. We entered a private elevator, rode up to the sixth floor, and were greeted by a long, sterile corridor. White walls, silent as a morgue.

Each step echoed. Each second stretched into a full year of regret.

He led me to a massive double door paneled in dark wood. The sign above read: Suite Médica Privada 06.

And when the door swung open… everything I had held in ... every curse, every sharp remark ... drowned.

Kai lay on a wide white bed, an IV taped to his hand, a cut across his forehead, lips slightly split. And still, infuriatingly handsome.

The monitor beside him hummed with a steady heartbeat. Jasmine sat in the chair at his side, her hair a tangled mess, her face blotchy from tears.

Her eyes lifted to me. “You came.”

I nodded slowly, unable to look anywhere else but at the man in that bed.

Kai.

The man I had slapped with words. The man I had slept with in fury. The man I had once prayed would just .... God.

My pulse hammered.

Jasmine stood as soon as I entered, pulling in a long breath as though her lungs had been tied in knots for hours. “He drove himself. This morning.”

My hand gripped the strap of my bag, my gaze fixed on Kai’s still body. The clean bandages, the sharp jawline, the bruised temple. Cold crept into my ribs.

“Eight A.M,” Jasmine went on, her voice quiet. “I don’t know why he took the bypass. But the CCTV shows the car veering hard. He crossed into the truck lane. Got hit from the right side.”

My stomach dropped. “Was he asleep?”

“Maybe. Or maybe his mind was somewhere else.” Jasmine sank back into her chair, arms wrapping around herself.

I looked away. Part of me wanted to scream. Part of me wanted to hit him for being reckless with his life. But the rest… the rest just wanted him to wake up and spit out some sarcastic remark like always.

“What did the doctors say?”

“His head hit pretty hard. But they said he was lucky. The seatbelt held, and the airbags deployed.” Jasmine wiped at her swollen eyes. “His collarbone’s fractured, and… they suspect a concussion.”

I lowered my head, nausea twisting through me.

The room was as quiet as a church, only broken by the monitor’s rhythm ..beep… beep… beep… as if reminding us that Kaiden Alejandro de Domínguez was still alive.

But it wasn’t enough.

I wanted him to open his eyes and mock the state of my hoodie. Or demand to know why I was even here, with that smug tone that always made me want to throw something at his face. Instead, there was only stillness, and a hospital blanket that didn’t belong on a man who usually wore fabrics worth two months of a junior architect’s salary.

The door opened softly. A middle-aged man in a white coat stepped inside. I knew him. Dr. Luis Mendía, the Domínguez family’s private physician, a man who looked like his entire life was one endless spreadsheet.

“Señorita D’Souza. Señorita Domínguez,” he greeted, then moved to Kai’s bedside.

He pulled up a tablet, checked his pupils, blood pressure, motor responses, then pressed lightly against his temple.

“How is he?” Jasmine asked.

The doctor exhaled. “Stable, for now. No major internal injuries. But… there’s a mild contusion in the left frontal lobe. That part of the brain controls cognitive function, concentration, and short-term memory.”

I stepped closer. “What does that mean?”

“He has a moderate concussion. And given the impact, we expect a coma for some time.”

My heart stumbled.

“How long?” Jasmine asked first.

“Hard to say. It could be days. It could be… longer. Every patient responds differently. What we can do is keep his vitals stable and monitor brain activity.”

The door burst open again, louder this time.

A pair of maroon Louboutins entered first. Then a cream Chanel dress, a pearl necklace, and an aura of passive-aggression that filled the entire room.

Isabel Domínguez.

Drama queen. Couture-clad demon.

“Ay Dios mío!” she cried, rushing to the bed, clutching Kai’s hand. “Mi amor, mi niño…” Her voice broke as tears spilled. “How could this happen…?”

Carlos Domínguez entered a second later. Calmer. Colder. His eyes, though, locked straight onto me. Sharp.

I held my breath.

Isabel caressed Kai’s cheek, kissed his forehead. “My son… my son… look at what she’s done to you…”

SHE.

I didn’t need a psychology degree to know who she meant by SHE.

She meant me.

I rolled my eyes and decided to leave before my blood boiled enough to make me actually yank Isabel’s pearl necklace off and strangle her with the overpriced string she bought from the most exclusive boutique in Madrid.

My tired body carried me into the private suite’s lounge. Because obviously, even in a hospital, his family needed their own floor, complete with a sitting room, a minibar, and velvet couches so plush they practically begged me to collapse and never wake up until all this was over.

I dropped onto the sofa.

Exhaled. Once. Twice. Closed my eyes. Swore silently. Then opened them again.

Head pounding. I massaged my temple. Not because of a hangover from last night… okay, maybe a little.

I stood up. “God, I need air. And deodorant. And a T-shirt. And clothes for Mr. Handsome-in-a-coma.”

I told Jasmine I was going back to the penthouse for a bit. She nodded wearily but didn’t stop me. Maybe she needed distance too.

The penthouse was still a mess. His clothes from last night scattered on the floor. The bed unmade. And obviously, an empty water bottle on the nightstand, sitting in the exact spot where he usually left his gun. Classy.

I opened the closet, packed a small suitcase with T-shirts, loungewear, underwear (all brands that, unfortunately, cost more than my assistant’s monthly salary). I grabbed his cologne too. Because for some reason, the scent made it hard to breathe, but leaving it behind felt worse.

Half an hour later, I was back at the hospital.

XXXXX

Kai was still unconscious. His body unmoving, exactly like that morning. But now, the afternoon light spilled across his face, making his skin look like expensive marble.

Handsome. Serene. And irritating, because even in a coma he still looked like a luxury watch model.

“Go on, try waking up now,” I muttered, pulling open the small wardrobe in the corner and starting to organize his clothes. “I’ll throw this sock straight at your face.”

T-shirts folded, stacked in the drawer. Boxers half-folded, tossed onto the bottom shelf. Pajamas rolled and shoved in. If folding could heal brain trauma, he’d be standing here by now, asking me to stop messing with his system.

“This feels like cleaning the room of a teenage boy who cheats on his girlfriend and doesn’t know how to do his own laundry,” I grumbled under my breath.

When I finished, I shut the closet door and stretched my shoulders.

And when I stepped back into the lounge, his parents were already seated on the velvet couch, staring at me like prosecutor and judge in a family court.

Carlos gestured to the chair across from them. “Sit down, Thalia. We need to talk.”

I didn’t sit. “I’d rather stand.”

Isabel folded her arms. “We didn’t come here to fight.”

I arched a brow. “So today must be special.”

Carlos sighed and placed a folder on the coffee table.

A thin brown folder. And I knew instantly.

“This is…?” I asked, pointing at it.

“Divorce papers,” Isabel said quietly.

I laughed. A hollow sound that rang through a room too expensive to waste on bad jokes. “You’re serious?”

Carlos looked straight at me. “Kai never wanted this marriage. You two married because my father believed uniting our families would fast-track expansion into Mexico. And yes, it worked. Business grew. Bridges were built. Your role? Complete. We believe that after a year of chaos, both you and Kai have proven this marriage burns more than it builds.”

I crossed my arms. “So you needed him in a coma to finally wrap it up?”

Isabel’s lips curved faintly. “We’re simply expediting what should have ended a long time ago.”

“And if I don’t sign?” I stepped closer. “Then what? You toss me off the hospital balcony?”

Isabel opened the folder, pulled out a sheet of paper, and held it up. “If you don’t sign, we’ll make sure every business you own, every contract you hold, crumbles. One by one. We have more than enough influence to do it.”

Ah. The classic rich-family threat.

Sweet and lethal.

I inhaled slowly, meeting their eyes in turn. Isabel with her thin smile. Carlos with the icy stare I’d seen far too often since the day I married their son.

Then I picked up the pen.

And signed.