Chapter 4 The Night I Should Have Died

Ashley's Point of View

There is no pain at first.

Only light.

Blinding, merciless white light that consumes everything, swallowing the city, the noise, the past. For a brief, strange moment, I think I've finally escaped-that this is what peace feels like.

Then the pain comes.

It crashes into me all at once, violent and unforgiving. My body slams against something hard, the impact ripping the air from my lungs. I hear metal shriek, glass shatter, someone scream.

I think it might be me.

The ground rushes up to meet me, cold and unyielding. My head hits with a sound I feel more than hear. The world spins wildly, stars exploding behind my eyes.

I can't breathe.

My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Panic claws up my throat as my chest convulses uselessly. I taste blood-sharp, coppery.

This is how it ends, a detached part of my mind observes.

Alone. Unwanted. Forgotten.

Darkness creeps in from the edges of my vision, heavy and seductive. I welcome it. Let it take me. Let everything stop.

Just before it does, I hear a voice.

"Hey-hey, stay with me."

Male. Deep. Urgent.

Strong hands grip my shoulders, firm but careful, anchoring me to the ground.

"Don't close your eyes," the voice says. "Look at me."

I try.

The world flickers in and out like a broken screen. Faces hover above me-blurry, distorted. Sirens wail somewhere far away.

"I didn't... do it," I whisper, though I don't know to whom. "I didn't touch her."

The hands tighten slightly.

"I know," the voice says without hesitation. "I know."

Something about that-about the certainty in his tone-makes my chest ache more than the pain.

I want to ask him how he could possibly know.

But the darkness finally claims me.

I dream of my mother.

She's standing in sunlight, just beyond my reach, wearing the pale blue dress she loved. Her hair moves gently in a breeze I can't feel.

"Ashley," she says softly.

I try to run to her, but my feet won't move.

"Am I dead?" I ask.

She smiles sadly. "Not yet."

"Then why does it hurt so much?"

She steps closer. Kneels in front of me, the way she used to when I was little.

"Because you've been carrying pain that was never yours to bear," she says, brushing my hair back. "And because you forgot who you are."

"Who am I?" I whisper.

Her eyes shine. "You are not weak. You are not disposable. And you are not done."

The light brightens, blinding-

I wake up screaming.

The sound tears out of my throat, raw and panicked. My body jerks violently, sending sharp pain lancing through my ribs, my arm, my head.

"Easy."

Hands-real hands this time-press gently but firmly against my shoulders, holding me still.

"You're safe," a man says. "You're in a hospital."

Hospital.

The word grounds me.

I suck in a shallow, shaky breath. The air smells sterile, tinged with antiseptic and something faintly floral. My heart pounds wildly, each beat echoing in my ears.

The room slowly comes into focus.

Soft lighting. Machines beeping quietly. White sheets tucked carefully around me.

And a man sitting beside the bed.

He's older than I expected. Late forties, maybe early fifties. His face is sharp but not cruel, lined in a way that suggests thoughtfulness rather than age. His hair is dark, threaded with silver. He wears a simple black suit, no tie, as if he came straight from somewhere important and didn't bother changing.

His eyes are what hold me.

Steel-gray. Steady. Observant.

They don't look at me like I'm fragile.

They look at me like I matter.

"You were hit by a car," he says calmly. "You've been unconscious for nearly twelve hours."

Twelve hours.

I swallow. My throat burns. "Did... anyone call my family?"

The question escapes before I can stop it.

Something flickers across his face.

"No," he says gently. "I asked them not to."

My brow furrows weakly. "Why?"

"Because you asked me not to," he replies.

I stare at him.

"I did?"

"Yes." His lips curve faintly. "Very clearly, actually."

My chest tightens.

I don't remember that.

But the idea that I might have said it-that some instinct inside me knew better-makes something ache inside my ribcage.

"Who are you?" I ask.

"My name is Richard Sterling," he says. "I was the one who pulled you out of the road."

The memory flashes-headlights, a voice, hands holding me down.

"You saved me," I whisper.

"I stopped you from dying," he corrects quietly. "The rest is up to you."

The weight of that settles over me.

I look away, staring at the ceiling.

"I didn't want to be saved," I admit.

"I know," he says.

There's no judgment in his voice.

Just understanding.

The doctors come and go.

They tell me about the injuries: a fractured arm, bruised ribs, a mild concussion. Nothing life-threatening. Miraculously.

I don't feel miraculous.

I feel emptied out.

When they leave, silence settles again.

Richard doesn't rush to fill it.

That, more than anything, unnerves me.

Most people can't stand silence around broken things.

"Why are you still here?" I finally ask.

He studies me for a long moment before answering.

"Because I saw something in you," he says. "Even before you opened your eyes."

I almost laugh.

"You saw a woman bleeding on the street."

"I saw someone who had been pushed there," he corrects. "There's a difference."

My fingers curl into the sheets.

"You don't know me."

"No," he agrees. "But I know despair. And I know resilience. They often look the same at first glance."

I turn my head to look at him.

"You're very calm for someone who just saved a stranger's life."

His mouth tightens slightly. "I've had practice."

With death, I realize.

The way he speaks. The way he looks at me.

This is a man who lives with a clock ticking loudly in the background.

"Why help me?" I ask quietly.

His gaze doesn't waver.

"Because no one helped me when I needed it," he says. "And because I suspect you won't survive much longer if you're sent back to where you came from."

The truth of it lands like a blow.

Tears burn behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall.

"I don't have anywhere else," I say.

"I know," he replies.

Silence again.

Then-

"Stay with me," he says.

I blink. "What?"

"I have a private recovery residence outside the city," he continues evenly. "Quiet. Secure. No press. You can heal there."

Suspicion prickles faintly beneath the fog of exhaustion.

"And what do you want in return?" I ask.

A ghost of a smile touches his lips.

"Nothing," he says. "Yet."

That should scare me.

Instead, it feels like the first honest thing anyone has offered me in years.

I close my eyes.

"I'm so tired," I whisper.

"I know," he says softly.

When I fall asleep again, it's not into darkness.

It's into something quieter.

Safer.

I wake hours later to rain tapping gently against a window.

The room is dim, peaceful. My body aches, but the pain feels... manageable.

Richard is still there, reading something on his tablet.

"You should charge rent," I murmur.

He looks up. "You're awake."

"Unfortunately."

He arches a brow. "That's debatable."

I almost smile.

Almost.

"Why me?" I ask suddenly.

He sets the tablet aside.

"Because," he says slowly, "I'm dying."

The words hang in the air, heavy and irrevocable.

I stare at him.

"What?"

"Six months," he continues calmly. "Aggressive. Unpleasant. Terminal."

My chest tightens painfully.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"Don't be," he says. "I've made peace with it."

I shake my head. "Then why-"

"Because I need someone," he says simply. "Someone intelligent. Someone invisible enough not to attract vultures. Someone who understands what it's like to be discarded."

Understanding dawns slowly.

Not fear.

Not revulsion.

But something colder.

Clearer.

"You're offering me shelter," I say, "because you need something from me."

"Yes," he agrees without pretense.

"And if I say no?"

He meets my gaze steadily.

"Then I'll make sure you leave this hospital safely," he says. "And I'll never interfere with your life again."

Honest.

Clean.

A choice.

I stare at the rain-streaked window.

At the city that chewed me up and spat me out.

At the future I no longer recognize.

"What do you want?" I ask.

He leans forward slightly.

"I want you to marry me," Richard Sterling says.

The words land like a thunderclap.

I laugh.

It's soft. Disbelieving.

"You don't even know me."

"I know enough," he replies. "And I don't want love. I want legacy."

My heartbeat slows.

"And what would I get?" I ask.

His eyes sharpen-not predatory, but purposeful.

"Everything," he says. "My name. My fortune. My company. My resources."

My breath catches.

"Why?"

"Because," he says quietly, "you look like someone who will survive me. And because I want my life's work to belong to someone who understands what power costs."

The room is very still.

Outside, rain continues to fall.

For the first time since the altar, something inside me shifts.

Not hope.

Not yet.

But possibility.