On getting to the hospital, Isla jumped out before the car had even stopped. She shouted for help, her voice sharp and desperate, echoing off the white walls of the emergency bay. Within seconds, a team of nurses and doctors rushed toward them with a stretcher.

The man was lifted out of the car in a blur of motion, his limp arm falling against her as they carried him inside.

She followed them through the automatic doors, her breath uneven, hands trembling so badly she had to hold them together. Someone told her to wait behind the red line. She did. She watched as the doors swung shut and swallowed him, leaving her in the hum of machines and fluorescent lights that buzzed louder than her thoughts.

Her clothes were sticky with something she didn’t want to think about. Her throat burned, and she realized she hadn’t taken a proper breath since they left the street. The smell of antiseptic filled the air — too clean, too sharp. She sank into one of the plastic chairs in the waiting area, clutching her elbows, as people came and went around her like she wasn’t even there.

Minutes passed. Then an hour. Then more. Every time the doors opened, she looked up, hoping someone would tell her something, anything. Nobody did.

Through the narrow glass window, Isla caught flashes of motion — doctors moving fast, voices rising, the sound of something that made her stomach twist.

“We’re losing him!” someone shouted inside. The air changed — sharp, tense. “Heart rate’s dropping—now!” another voice followed.

“Clear!” came next, and then a muffled thud, followed by the long, flat sound that made Isla’s knees go weak. Nurses rushed in and out, their faces tight with focus, hands moving too fast for her eyes to follow.

She didn’t understand what any of it meant, but her body did — every muscle tensed, her chest tight, her palms cold. “Please,” she whispered, to no one in particular, not even sure if she was praying.

When a nurse finally came out, Isla was already on her feet, heart hammering. “How is he?” she asked, her voice barely holding together.

“He’s in surgery,” the nurse said softly. “They’re doing everything they can. You should sit. It’ll take a few hours.”

A few hours. Isla nodded, but her legs wouldn’t move. She stayed standing, eyes fixed on the door the nurse disappeared through.

The hours crawled by, one after another. The white clock on the wall ticked so loudly she thought it might drive her mad. People around her came and went — a crying child, an elderly man coughing, a woman pacing with a coffee cup — all of them with their own lives falling apart. Isla felt invisible, like she’d been left behind in the noise of other people’s tragedies.

When the double doors finally opened again, it was past midnight. A doctor came out, mask hanging from one ear, his face drawn but calm.

“He made it through surgery,” he said. “He’s in intensive care now. Stable, for the moment.”

For the moment. The words lodged somewhere in Isla’s throat. “Can I see him?” she asked quietly.

The doctor paused, studying her for a beat. “He’s in critical condition — still in recovery. You can’t go inside,” he said gently. Then he nodded toward a nurse. “She’ll take you to the observation window.”

In few hours, they led her down a quiet hallway, the lights dimmed, machines beeping steadily in the background. A nurse handed her a disposable gown, a mask, and a cap. Isla tied them on with shaky fingers and stepped toward the glass door.

He was there, lying still under white sheets, wires running from his arms to a cluster of machines. His skin looked pale, fragile. She couldn’t see much of his face, but when she moved closer, his eyes fluttered — barely open.

A nurse mentioned softly that the anesthesia was starting to wear off. Isla barely breathed, her eyes fixed on the still figure behind the glass.

Then, his fingers twitched. His lips parted slightly, a rough breath catching in his throat — like someone fighting their way back from a dream.

“Hey,” she whispered, not even sure if he could hear.

For a moment, he seemed to focus on her. His lips moved, dry and slow. “Aria…”

The word barely formed, slipping out like a breath. Isla froze. “What?”

But his eyes closed again, the machines hummed on, and a nurse gently took her arm. “You should wait outside,” she said.

Back in the waiting area, Isla sat in silence, her thoughts circling that single word — Aria. Who was she? A sister? A girlfriend? His wife? Whoever she was, she was someone he’d thought of first. Someone who wasn’t Isla.

The sound of footsteps broke through her thoughts. Two police officers approached, one man, one woman, both wearing tired expressions. The woman spoke first. “Miss Reyes?”

“Yes,” Isla said, standing. Her voice came out smaller than she expected.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions about the accident earlier tonight.”

“Of course,” she said quickly. “I was just helping. I found him on the road—”

The male officer flipped open a small notebook. “Did you see what happened?”

“No, I just heard the crash. People were standing around. No one was doing anything, so I called for help.”

He nodded slowly. “And how did you get him here?”

“A man stopped — a driver. I don’t know his name. He helped me bring him here.”

“Is the driver still here?”

Isla looked around instinctively. The spot near the entrance was empty. Her chest tightened. “He—he left after we got here.”

The officers exchanged a look. Not hostile, but cautious. The woman’s tone softened. “Do you have any ID on you?”

Isla handed it over, her hands still shaking. The man jotted something down. “Miss Reyes, we’re just trying to understand the situation,” he said. “The witness who called in mentioned a hit-and-run, but the car you arrived in doesn’t match the description. We’ll need you to come with us to give a formal statement.”

“Can’t we do it here?” she asked. “I want to wait until he wakes up—”

“It’ll just take a few minutes,” the woman officer said. “You can call someone to meet you there.”

She rubbed her hands together. Her phone — where was her phone? She checked her bag, her pockets, the floor around her chair. Nothing. It must’ve fallen somewhere in the chaos.

“I—” Isla stopped. Her phone. “I lost my phone,” she admitted, her voice cracking.

Panic fluttered in her chest again. She couldn’t call her mother, couldn’t call Clara. She had no one.

The officers hesitated, then the man sighed. “Alright, we’ll sort it out at the station. You can make a call once we get there.”

She nodded, swallowing hard. Her head felt light, like everything around her was tilting slightly off balance. The woman placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, guiding her toward the door.

The night air hit her like cold water. Red and blue lights pulsed against the pavement, painting her face in flashes.

“Miss Reyes, please step in,” the officer said.

She slid into the backseat. The door closed with a dull click. Through the window, the hospital lights blurred into the dark — somewhere inside, the man she’d saved was still breathing.Her hands trembled in her lap, the chill sinking deep.

He lived. Yet she was the one being taken away.

The police station smelled of stale coffee and disinfectant. The room was small, cold, and too bright — the kind of place that made you feel like you’d done something wrong even if you hadn’t.

Isla sat at a metal table, her jacket wrapped tightly around her. Her jacket still smelled faintly of antiseptic, and there were dried stains on her sleeves — reminders of the night she couldn’t shake off.

A clock ticked on the wall. Too loud. Too slow.

She looked toward the door, her voice hesitant. “Can I call someone? Just to let them know I’m here?”

They let her use the station phone. A younger officer passing by outside glanced in, then nodded. “You’ll get a call, ma’am. Just wait a few minutes.”

She nodded, trying to hold on to that small comfort — one call. She already knew who she’d try first.

Her fingers hovered over the dial. Calling her mother would mean tears, panic, too many questions. So she dialed Clara instead.

No answer.

She tried again. Still nothing. She was taken back to the interrogation room.

The door opened, and the same two officers from the hospital walked in. The woman — Officer Blake, her badge read — set a cup of water in front of Isla. The man leaned against the wall, notebook already open.

“Miss Reyes,” Blake said, her voice calm but tired. “We just want to go over everything again, okay?”

Isla nodded, fingers clasped so tightly the knuckles turned white. “I already told you. I found him on the road. There were people, but no one—no one helped.”

The male officer looked up. “You didn’t know the victim?”

“No,” Isla said quickly. “I’d never seen him before.”

“Then why bring him to the hospital yourself?”

Her throat tightened. “Because he was dying,” she said softly. “The ambulance wasn’t coming fast enough.”

The man exchanged a glance with Blake. “And the driver who helped you — what’s his name?”

“I don’t know,” Isla said. “He stopped when I waved him down. He didn’t say anything, just helped me get him in the car.”

“Do you remember the license plate?”

She shook her head. “It was dark. I didn’t—” her voice broke a little “—I didn’t think about that.”

The man sighed and wrote something down. The sound of the pen scratching paper filled the silence. Isla’s pulse thudded in her ears.

The door opened again. This time, someone new stepped in — a tall man in plain clothes, his badge clipped to his belt. He had the kind of face that didn’t need to raise its voice to be taken seriously.

“Detective Rowen,” he said, pulling out a chair. “Mind if I sit?”

Isla shook her head, unsure if she could speak.

He sat across from her, folding his hands. “You’ve had a rough night, I imagine.”

She gave a weak laugh. “You could say that.”

Rowen watched her quietly for a moment. “The man you brought in — he’s been identified. His name is Xavier Ashford.”

The name meant nothing. Isla frowned slightly. “I don’t— I’ve never heard of him.”

Rowen nodded slowly, as if testing her reaction. “He’s the CEO of Ashford Enterprises. Billionaire. Makes the news sometimes.”

She blinked, her thoughts tripping over each other. “Wait—billionaire?”

He studied her. “That’s right. Which is why we’re trying to understand how someone like him ended up on foot in a quiet neighborhood at night. And how you happened to be there.”

“I told you, I just found him,” Isla said, her voice cracking. “I was walking home. I heard a crash. That’s it.”

Rowen leaned back, unreadable. “You understand why this looks strange, right? No witnesses have stepped forward, no car fragments, no dashcam footage. Just you, a stranger, and a missing driver.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” Isla’s voice rose before she caught herself. “Please, I was only trying to help.”

The detective’s tone softened. “I know. But sometimes good intentions get tangled in bad timing.”

Her breath came unevenly. She looked down at her hands — still stained faintly red beneath her nails — and felt her stomach twist.

Hours passed in fragments after that. More questions. More waiting. The clock crept past 5 a.m., and Isla’s answers grew smaller, quieter. Every word felt like proof she didn’t have.

When morning light seeped through the blinds, the detective returned. “The hospital called,” he said. “Ashford made it through the night. He’s stable.”

The breath Isla didn’t realize she was holding escaped her in a shaky sigh. “Thank God.”

When the questioning finally ended, the detective closed his file with a quiet sigh. “You’re free to go, Miss Reyes. We may follow up if we need more details.”

“Just like that?” she asked, voice brittle with exhaustion.

“Just like that.”

He stood, but hesitated at the door. “You did the right thing, Miss Reyes. Even if it didn’t feel like it tonight.”

Isla just nodded, her mind fogged. “Can I use the phone now?” she asked.

Officer Blake gestured toward a desk near the exit. “Go ahead.”

Her hands shook as she dialed Clara’s number again. It rang once. Twice. Then—

“Hello?” Clara’s voice came through, groggy but sharp with worry.

“Clara,” Isla breathed, relief breaking through her chest. “I’m at the police station. They— I had to give a statement about an accident.”

“What? You’re where?” Clara’s voice snapped awake. “Stay there. I’m coming.”

By the time Isla hung up, the weight in her chest felt a little lighter — not gone, but bearable.

Less than an hour later, Clara rushed into the station, hair pulled back, her coat thrown over pajamas. “Are you okay?” she asked the moment she saw her.

“I think so,” Isla whispered.

Clara wrapped an arm around her shoulder and led her outside.

By the time Isla stepped outside, the sun was pale and cold against her face. The city felt wrong — too bright for how heavy her body felt. They caught a bus home, her reflection flickering in the window beside empty seats. Her thoughts were loud, circling one name over and over. Xavier Ashford.

By the time she reached her apartment, Clara was pacing the living room in her pajamas, worry etched across her face.

“Where the hell have you been?” she blurted, rushing to her. “I called you all night!"

Isla’s voice cracked. “I lost my phone.”

“Lost your—Isla, look at you.” Clara grabbed her shoulders. “You’re freezing.”

Inside, the warmth of the apartment felt almost cruel. Isla sank into the couch, explaining everything in halting fragments — the cake, the accident, the hospital, the police. Clara listened, stunned. When Isla finished, her friend exhaled sharply and shook her head.

“You should’ve minded your business,” she muttered. “You could’ve been killed.”

“I know,” Isla said softly. “But I couldn’t just walk away.”

Clara sighed and went to the kitchen. The smell of eggs and toast filled the air. She set a plate in front of Isla, who only stared at it. Eventually, exhaustion won. She lay down on the couch, still in her clothes, and she finally let herself fall asleep.

Hours passed.

The sound of knocking woke Clara first. Firm, steady knocks — not the kind you ignore. She opened the door a few inches, blinking against the late afternoon light.

A man in a dark suit stood on the porch. Broad shoulders. Earpiece. Every inch of him screamed bodyguard.

“Yes?” Clara said warily.

“Isla Reyes?” the man asked, voice clipped but polite. “Mr. Ashford would like to see you.”

Clara frowned. “She’s asleep. Who are you exactly?”

The man held up an ID badge embossed with the Ashford Enterprises logo. “I was sent to escort her.”

Clara crossed her arms. “She’s been through enough. Whatever this is can wait.”

“I’m afraid it’s urgent,” the man said. His tone stayed calm, but his gaze didn’t waver. “Mr. Ashford requested her personally.”

Behind Clara, Isla stirred. She pushed herself up, her head foggy, hair a tangled mess. “Clara?” she mumbled. “What’s going on?”

Clara turned. “Some guy says a Mr. Ashford wants to see you.”

Isla blinked, stepping closer. The bodyguard looked at her, his expression unreadable.

“Miss Reyes,” he said. “There’s a car waiting outside. Mr. Ashford would like to speak with you in person.”

The world seemed to tilt for a second. The man from the road — the billionaire who’d nearly died — wanted to see her?

Her pulse quickened. Fear, confusion, disbelief — all tangled together. “Why?” she asked quietly.

The bodyguard didn’t answer. “Please, ma’am. It’s better if he explains himself.”

Isla’s mouth went dry as Clara’s hand brushed her arm — a quiet warning. Just when she thought everything was over,life reminded her she wasn’t free yet.

Clara closed the door after the bodyguard left, turning to Isla with a look halfway between disbelief and panic.

“Please tell me you’re not actually thinking of going with that man,” she said. “He looks like he could snap a neck just by thinking about it.”

Isla rubbed her forehead. “Clara, he works for Xavier Ashford. I can’t just ignore him.”

“Yes, you can,” Clara shot back. “It’s called staying alive.”

“Clara,” Isla said, trying to sound braver than she felt, “I’m going. You’re coming with me.”

Clara blinked. “Excuse me? Why am I getting kidnapped too?”

“You’re not getting kidnapped,” Isla muttered, already pulling on her jacket. “You’re making sure I don’t.”

Clara groaned but started changing anyway. “Unbelievable. You save one billionaire and suddenly we’re starring in Taken 4: The Broke Roommates.”

Despite the nerves clawing at her chest, Isla laughed — just once, short and shaky. “Then let’s at least look decent for our ransom photo.”

They dressed quickly, both moving on autopilot — no makeup, plain clothes, hair tied back in messy knots. When the knock came again, Clara flinched and whispered, “This is how horror movies start.”

“Then stay close,” Isla said quietly, opening the door. “We’ll survive the first act together.”

The drive was quiet, except for the steady hum of the tires against the road. Isla sat in the back seat beside Clara, who hadn’t stopped fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve since they left the apartment. The city outside looked washed out — gray buildings, morning light, streets still wet from the night’s rain.

The bodyguard didn’t say much. Every so often, he spoke into a small earpiece, his voice low and professional. The car itself felt too clean, too expensive for them to belong in. Isla kept her hands folded tightly in her lap, her thoughts running circles around the same question: Why would a man like Xavier Ashford want to see her?

When the car finally turned into a gated compound, she realized it wasn’t an ordinary hospital. The sign at the entrance read St. Regis Private Medical Wing — a place she’d only ever seen in news reports about politicians and CEOs.

Inside, the air was almost too quiet. White walls, polished floors, the faint scent of disinfectant that somehow smelled expensive. Nurses moved in soft shoes, speaking in lowered voices. Clara reached for Isla’s hand as the bodyguard led them through a glass corridor.

“Are you sure about this?” Clara whispered.

“No,” Isla said honestly.

At the end of the hall stood a single guarded door. The bodyguard spoke briefly to someone at the desk, then turned to Isla. “He’s expecting you. Your friend can wait here.”

Clara’s grip tightened. “She’s not going in alone.”

The man hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Fine. But please, no interruptions.”

The door opened with a soft click.

The room was spacious, filled with quiet machines and filtered sunlight. Xavier Ashford sat propped against the pillows, pale but alert, his arm hooked to an IV. Even bruised and bandaged, there was something composed about him — the kind of calm that came from power, not peace.

When Isla stepped inside, his gaze lifted to her immediately. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“Miss Reyes,” he said, his voice low, steady. “You came.”

She swallowed. “Your bodyguard said you wanted to see me.”

“I did.” He gestured lightly to the chair beside the bed. “Please. Sit.”

She hesitated but obeyed. Clara stayed by the door, arms folded, eyes wary.

For a few seconds, there was only the soft rhythm of the monitor. Then Xavier spoke again. “You saved my life.”

“I just did what anyone would do,” Isla said.

He gave the faintest smile — not disbelief, but something close to it. “You’d be surprised how few people stop to help.”

Isla didn’t know what to say, so she looked down at her hands. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Xavier studied her for a moment. “Do you know who I am?”

“I do now,” she said quietly. “The police told me.”

“And yet you didn’t recognize me that night?”

She frowned slightly. “It was dark. You were bleeding. I wasn’t exactly thinking about that.”

He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving her face. “Where do you live, Miss Reyes?”

She blinked. “Why does that matter?”

“Curiosity,” he said, his tone almost casual. “You were in the right place at the right time. I find that interesting.”

Isla shifted in her seat. “I live on the south side. Near Bellview Street.”

“And you work?”

She hesitated. “I… do deliveries. Sometimes help at a bakery. Nothing permanent.”

Clara shot her a quick look, silently warning her to keep it short.

Xavier leaned back, his expression unreadable. “You’re not from money.”

It wasn’t a question, but it felt like one.

“No,” Isla said quietly.

He nodded once, as if confirming something to himself. “You mentioned another person that night — the driver who helped you.”

“Yes,” Isla said, relieved to change the subject. “He stopped when I waved him down. I don’t know his name. He just disappeared after we reached the hospital.”

Xavier’s jaw tensed slightly. “Convenient.”

Her pulse quickened. “Are you saying you don’t believe me?”

“I’m saying,” he replied evenly, “that I like to understand things fully. Especially when they involve me.”

Clara took a step forward. “She didn’t do anything wrong. She risked her life to help you.”

His eyes flicked toward her — sharp, assessing — then softened almost imperceptibly. “I know,” he said. “And I’m grateful.”

The silence that followed was heavy but not hostile. Isla shifted in her chair, unsure if she should stand or stay. “If that’s all, I should probably go,” she said softly. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

She rose, smoothing her jacket nervously.

“Aria, wait-” Xavier said.

Isla froze. The word didn’t make sense at first — like she’d misheard it. She turned slowly. “...What did you call me?”

Xavier blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You said Aria,” she repeated, her voice quiet but firm. “That’s… not my name.”

A flicker of something — recognition, maybe regret — crossed his face before he masked it with a faint smile. “I did? Sorry. Must’ve mixed something up.”

Isla frowned slightly, her confusion deepening. “Mixed up how? Do I… remind you of someone?”

He hesitated just long enough to make her heart pick up speed. Then, smoothly, “You just look familiar. I’ve been in and out of consciousness — painkillers, maybe.”

She didn’t believe him, not entirely. But she couldn’t find the right words to press further.

“It’s fine,” she murmured instead. “I should go.”

“I owe you,” he said quietly, as if her confusion hadn’t happened. “You saved my life. That isn’t something I take lightly.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Isla said, still distracted by the echo of that name.

“I disagree,” Xavier replied, calm and deliberate — his eyes still studying her, as though the answer to something he needed lay right there in her face.

He reached for a notepad on the side table, scribbled something, and tore off a small card. “If you ever need anything — call this number. Day or night.”

She stared at it but didn’t move to take it. “Why would I need—”

“I insist,” he said, tone quiet but firm. “Think of it as… insurance.”

Isla hesitated, then reached out. The paper felt heavy in her palm, like more than it should have been.

Xavier’s gaze lingered on her — too long, too intent. “You remind me of someone,” he said softly.

Her heartbeat stumbled. “Who?”

He didn’t answer right away. “Someone I used to know.” His eyes flickered briefly — almost distant. “Aria.”

The name hit her like a cold draft. Isla didn’t know why, but it made her uneasy. “I should go,” she said, slipping the card into her pocket.

“Of course.”

As she turned toward the door, he added, “I’m relocating you. Temporarily.”

Isla stopped. “Relocating?”

“I have apartments available across the city. My assistant will show you a few options. It’s safer than where you are now.”

Clara spoke up, her voice sharp. “She’s not moving anywhere.”

Xavier’s tone remained calm, unbothered. “Consider it a thank-you. Rent-free. You can refuse if you want, but I’d advise against it.”

Isla’s instinct said to decline immediately — but then she felt Clara’s discreet pinch at her arm. When she turned, Clara’s expression said it all: We can’t afford to say no.

“Alright,” Isla murmured. “Just for a while.”

Xavier nodded. “Good.” He pressed a button by his bed. Within seconds, the same bodyguard appeared at the door.

“Show Miss Reyes the properties,” Xavier said. “And make sure she gets home safely afterward.”

The man nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Isla managed a small, uncertain smile. “Thank you, Mr. Ashford.”

“Xavier,” he corrected.

She hesitated, then nodded. “Thank you… Xavier.”

He watched her leave, the door closing softly behind her.

For a long moment after they were gone, Xavier sat in silence, eyes fixed on the empty space where she had stood. The calm in his expression slowly shifted — curiosity hardening into something sharper.

“She looks just like her,” he said quietly.

The bodyguard reentered a minute later. “Sir?”

Xavier didn’t look up. “Find out everything about her. Where she lives, who she knows, what she’s hiding. Discreetly.”

The bodyguard nodded once. “Yes, Mr. Ashford.”

When he was alone again, Xavier leaned back against the pillow, his jaw tight. Outside, the city moved on — unaware that one small act of kindness had just tied two strangers to each other in ways neither of them yet understood.