The Don's Regret: Losing His Life Saver

For three years, I was the one scrubbing the scent of blood from his hands and holding him while he screamed in pain. I was the one who taught Coleton Barron how to walk again after the car bomb nearly took his legs.

But the moment he reclaimed his seat as Don, I became invisible.

At his recovery gala, he draped his arm around Charly-the woman who fled when he was crippled-and laughed as he told his inner circle I was "just the hired help."

It didn't stop at insults. When Charly faked a fall, he shoved me aside with enough force to crack my skull against the pool edge.

When a bomb went off in a gallery, he looked me in the eye, saw me trapped under debris, and turned his back to carry her to safety instead.

He even held a gun to my head because she lied about me poisoning his soup.

His mother threw a check at me, telling me that tools go back in the box when the job is done. They thought I would beg to stay. They thought I was weak.

I took the five million and vanished without a word.

Three years later, I returned to New York. Not as his nurse, but as the fiancée of the only man Coleton fears.

And when he saw the diamond on my finger, the King of New York finally realized he had thrown away his only lifeline.

Chapter 1

Arminda POV

Three years of silence. Three years of changing bandages, of scrubbing the metallic scent of blood from his hands, and of whispering prayers when the fever took him.

Yet, it took exactly three seconds for Coleton Barron to remind me that I was just the help.

I stood on the edge of the limestone patio, a plush white towel draped over my arm like a mark of servitude, watching the man I had put back together laugh with a woman who had never seen him bleed.

The music at the Barron estate was loud enough to vibrate in my chest, masking the sound of my own heart splintering.

This was the "Made Man" recovery gala, a celebration of Coleton officially taking the seat of Don after the car bomb that nearly took his legs.

I was the one who taught him how to walk again. I was the one who held the bucket while he retched from pain meds, his sweat soaking through my shirt.

But tonight, I was invisible.

Jaydan and Isaias, Coleton's top Capos, flanked me. They were lethal men in expensive suits, holding champagne flutes with hands that had ended lives.

"He looks good, Arminda," Jaydan said, his voice a low rumble. "You did a miracle on those legs. The family owes you."

Isaias nodded, swirling his drink with a thoughtful frown. "So, when is the Boss going to make it official? You've been living in the penthouse for three years. He doesn't let anyone else touch him."

I tightened my grip on the towel, my knuckles turning white. "I'm just his nurse, Isaias. The contract ends this month."

"Bullshit," Isaias muttered. "He looks at you like you're the oxygen in the room."

I forced myself to look across the pool.

Coleton stood in a cluster of investors and rival mobsters. He looked powerful, dangerous, and devastatingly handsome in his tailored suit. The cane in his hand was more of a prop now than a necessity, a symbol of a war he had survived.

Standing next to him was Charly Mack.

She was the daughter of a cartel associate, a woman who dripped money and danger. She had vanished when Coleton was crippled. Now that he was King, she was back.

Coleton said something that made the group laugh. He draped an arm around Charly's waist.

It was a possessive claim. A territorial mark.

"Hey, Coleton!" Isaias shouted, fueled by liquid courage. "When are you gonna give the nurse a ring? She saved your life!"

The music seemed to dip. The conversation in the VIP circle died instantly.

Coleton turned his cold, gray eyes toward us.

He didn't look at me with the warmth he used to show in the dark of the penthouse. He looked at me like I was a loose thread on his jacket-something annoying to be plucked and discarded.

He laughed. It was a dry, cruel sound.

"Arminda?" he said, his voice carrying effortlessly over the water. "She's just a friend. The best hired hands in the business, but let's not confuse gratitude with love, boys."

The air left my lungs. *Hired hands.*

Charly smirked, leaning into him. "See? I told you she was just staff."

She walked toward the edge of the pool, swaying in her heels, holding a glass of red wine. She looked at me with predatory eyes. I knew that look.

She was a lioness circling a wounded gazelle.

She stumbled-a theatrical, fake trip-sending her wine glass flying toward me.

It was instinct. I stepped forward to catch her arm.

But Coleton moved faster. His instinct wasn't to catch her. It was to protect her from *me*.

"Watch out!" he roared.

He lunged, shoving me aside to clear the space for Charly to regain her balance. He didn't check his strength. He was a man built of muscle and violence.

His hand hit my shoulder with the force of a battering ram.

I flew backward. My heels slipped on the wet tile.

The world spun. The blue water of the pool rushed up to meet me, but not before the back of my head cracked against the concrete coping.

*Crack.*

The sound was louder than the music. It echoed inside my skull like a gunshot.

Then, silence.

Then, water filling my nose, my mouth, stinging the fresh wound on my skull. I sank, watching the distorted lights of the party shimmering above the surface.

Strong hands hauled me out. Jaydan and Isaias. They laid me on the tiles, coughing and shivering. Blood trickled down my neck, staining the white towel I still clutched like a lifeline.

"God, Arminda," Jaydan cursed, pressing the towel to my head.

I looked up, my vision blurring.

Coleton wasn't looking at me. He was holding Charly's face, checking her for scratches.

"Are you okay, baby?" he asked her. "Did the wine spill on you?"

"I'm fine," Charly cooed, glancing at me with a triumphant sneer. "Just a scare."

Coleton finally looked down at me. His eyes were void of emotion, two chips of ice.

"Get her a doctor," he ordered Jaydan, then turned his back. "Party's over for the staff."

I tried to stand, but the world tilted violently. A shadow fell over me.

It wasn't Coleton.

It was Esther Barron, the Matriarch. She looked at my bleeding head with disdain, then reached into her clutch. She pulled out an envelope and tossed it onto my wet chest.

"Five million," she said, her voice like grinding stones. "The debt is paid. You were a tool, Arminda. Tools go back in the box when the job is done. Disappear, or we will make you disappear."

I clutched the envelope. My blood mixed with the pool water on the paper, turning the white pulp pink.

I looked at Coleton's back one last time.

He never turned around.

Arminda POV

The fluorescent hum of the emergency room didn't just buzz; it drilled straight into the throbbing center of my concussion. I sat on the edge of the paper-covered exam table, my dress still damp and clinging to my skin, reeking of chlorine and humiliation.

The doctor-a man firmly on the Barron payroll-snipped the last thread on the back of my scalp.

"Six stitches," he muttered, stripping off his latex gloves with a snap. "You have a mild concussion. No sleeping for the next four hours. And stay away from pools."

He offered no sympathy. In our world, sympathy was a hemorrhage-a weakness to be cauterized.

I slid off the table, the room tilting on its axis. I walked out to the waiting area, clutching the envelope Esther had thrown at me like a severance package. I expected the room to be empty. I expected to be alone.

I wasn't entirely wrong.

Through the glass doors of the private waiting room, I saw them.

Coleton sat in a plush leather chair, his head buried in his hands. For a fleeting second, a foolish, treacherous part of my heart whispered that he was worried about me. That he cared.

Then I saw Charly.

She was perched on his lap, sobbing into the crook of his neck. There wasn't a scratch on her.

"It was so scary, Cole," she whimpered, her voice pitched perfectly to carry through the cracked door. "She looked at me with such hatred. I think she tried to pull me in."

Coleton stroked her hair, his jaw set in a hard line. "She knows her place now, Charly. Shh."

"I just feel so unsafe with her in the penthouse," she added, her voice dropping to a manipulative whisper that slithered through the glass.

I turned away. My stomach churned, not from the concussion, but from the sheer toxicity radiating from that room. It was suffocating.

I pushed through the back exit, stepping into the cold rain. It washed over my face, mingling with the phantom scent of pool water. I pulled my phone out and dialed a number I had saved three years ago. A clinic in Zurich.

"This is Arminda Morse," I said, my voice steady despite the pounding in my skull. "Is the position still open?"

"Ms. Morse," the voice answered, surprised. "We didn't think you'd ever leave New York. Yes. When can you start?"

"Immediately."

I hung up and hailed a cab. I had to pack. I had to erase myself before they erased me completely.

The penthouse was silent when I arrived. It was a fortress of glass and steel, a gilded cage I had called home for three years. I went straight to my small room off the kitchen. I didn't take much. Just my clothes, my medical license, and the stethoscope Coleton had given me for Christmas that first year.

I picked up the framed photo on my nightstand. It was candid-Coleton in his wheelchair, me laughing as I pushed him through the garden. He was looking at me in the photo. He looked... human.

I slid the photo out of the frame and ripped it in half. Then I ripped it again.

"Arminda!"

His voice boomed from the main living area. It wasn't a question. It was a summons.

I froze. I shoved my suitcase under the bed and walked out.

Coleton was on the sprawling leather sofa, clutching his stomach. His face was ashen, sweat beading on his forehead. Charly was in the kitchen, humming a light tune as she stirred a pot.

"My stomach," Coleton groaned, looking up at me. The arrogance from the pool was gone, replaced by raw, unfiltered pain. "Fix it."

I walked over, my clinical detachment engaging automatically. I scanned him. Distended abdomen. Pallor. Diaphoresis.

"What did you eat?" I asked.

"Charly made carbonara," he gritted out.

I looked at Charly. She was pouring heavy cream into the pot, oblivious or uncaring.

"Rich cream, bacon, cheese," she said proudly. "Comfort food."

"He has half a stomach because of the surgeries, Charly," I said, my voice freezing over. "He cannot process heavy dairy or grease. It causes dumping syndrome. It's agony for him."

Charly rolled her eyes, setting the spoon down with a clatter. "Oh, please. He's a grown man, not an invalid. Stop babying him."

Coleton doubled over, a guttural groan tearing from his throat.

"Coleton," I said, focusing on him. "Don't eat anymore. You need enzymes and an antiemetic. I'll get them."

"It tastes good," Coleton gasped, glaring at me as if his pain was my doing. "Charly cooked for me. I'm eating it."

"It is poison to your system," I stated flatly.

"Just get the damn pills, Arminda!" he shouted. "Stop lecturing me and do your job."

I stared at him. He wasn't just choosing her food; he was choosing her reality. She treated him like a healthy man, and he was willing to suffer physical torture just to validate that fantasy.

"Fine," I whispered.

I went to the med cabinet, grabbed the enzymes and the painkillers. I walked back and set them on the table. Charly brought a fresh bowl of pasta, placing it in front of him with a sweet, triumphant smile.

"She's just jealous, baby," Charly whispered, loud enough for me to hear. "She wants you to be sick so you need her."

Coleton looked at the pills, then at the pasta. His hand trembled as he picked up the fork.

"Get out of my sight, Arminda," he muttered, shoving a forkful of heavy cream sauce into his mouth.

I walked back to my room, listening to the sound of him swallowing the food that would hurt him, realizing with a final clarity: he had been poisoned long before tonight.

Arminda POV

The penthouse was shrouded in darkness when I woke up, the silence not peaceful, but heavy and suffocating.

I checked my watch. 2:00 AM.

My head throbbed, a rhythmic reminder of the concrete coping where I had pressed my forehead earlier in despair. I crept out of my room, my sole intention to leave my keys on the counter and walk out the door forever.

I found him on the bathroom floor.

Coleton was curled in a fetal position on the cold marble, shivering violently. The "comfort food" had done exactly what I said it would. He was pale, sweating through his shirt, groaning in his sleep.

Charly was nowhere to be seen. She had probably gone to the guest suite to sleep, unwilling to deal with the mess she had created.

I should have stepped over him. I should have left him there.

But my hands moved before my brain could stop them. I knelt beside him.

"Coleton," I whispered.

He flinched, his eyes cracking open. They were hazy with pain. "Arminda?" he rasped. "It hurts."

"I know," I said softly.

I got a wet cloth and wiped his face. I helped him sit up, guiding him to lean against the tub. I adjusted the brace on his ankle, my fingers brushing the scars I knew better than my own name.

The metal clasp of the brace snagged my skin, slicing a thin line across my palm. I didn't flinch, and in his delirium, he didn't notice.

He leaned his head on my shoulder, his heavy breaths warming my neck. For a moment, he was the broken prince again, and I was his only sanctuary.

"Make it stop," he mumbled, his hand gripping my arm like a lifeline.

"Breathe," I instructed, massaging the pressure points on his hand. "It will pass."

He fell asleep like that, his head on my shoulder, his weight crushing me against the hard porcelain. I stayed until dawn, until his breathing evened out. Then I extricated myself, leaving him a glass of water and fresh enzymes.

By noon, the vulnerability was gone.

"Get dressed," Coleton barked, standing in the living room.

He looked haggard but composed, the armor back in place. "Charly has a gallery opening downtown. You're coming."

"I'm not on the clock," I said, standing by my door. "And I have a concussion."

"You're on the clock until I say you aren't," he snapped, adjusting his cuffs. "Charly needs an assistant for the event. Someone to handle the logistics. You're organized. You're going."

"I am a trauma nurse, Coleton. Not a personal assistant."

"You are whatever I pay you to be," he said, his voice dropping to that dangerous, vibrating octave. "Get in the car."

The gallery was a sleek, modern space in SoHo, filled with people who smelled of old money and new crimes. Charly was the center of attention, displaying "art" that looked like paint splattered by a toddler.

She treated me like a servant, snapping her fingers for water, for champagne, for me to hold her purse.

Coleton stood by the door, watching the exits. He was paranoid. He had enemies.

I was standing near a sculpture made of twisted metal when the alarm screamed.

It wasn't a fire drill. The sound was followed instantly by a concussive *boom* from the back of the gallery. The front windows shattered inward. Smoke, thick and black, rolled across the ceiling instantly. A rival family. A message.

"Down!" Jaydan screamed somewhere in the smoke.

The crowd surged like a terrified beast. I was shoved hard into the metal sculpture. My bad ankle, the one I had sprained months ago carrying Coleton's equipment, twisted violently. A sharp crack echoed up my leg. I crumbled to the floor, gasping.

"Coleton!" I screamed, the smoke stinging my eyes.

I saw him. He was ten feet away. He looked wildly through the gray haze. His eyes locked on mine.

For a second, I saw recognition. I saw him start to move toward me.

Then Charly shrieked. "Cole! Help me!"

She was standing near the exit, perfectly fine, just scared.

Coleton stopped. He looked at me, on the floor, unable to stand. Then he looked at Charly.

He turned his back on me.

He grabbed Charly's hand and shoved her through the door, disappearing into the safety of the street.

I was left alone in the smoke. The sprinklers kicked on, drenching me in cold, oily water. I dragged myself across the floor, glass cutting into my knees, my ankle screaming with every inch. I crawled over the shards of Charly's terrible art, coughing until I tasted blood.

I woke up in a hospital room that wasn't the Barron private suite. It was a general trauma ward. Jaydan was sitting in the chair, looking at the floor.

"Hairline fracture," he said without looking up. "And smoke inhalation."

"Where is he?" I asked, my voice a rasp.

"He's securing the perimeter," Jaydan lied. We both knew he was lying. "He... he didn't know you were still inside, Arminda. The smoke was thick."

"He looked me in the eye, Jaydan," I whispered.

The door banged open. Coleton strode in. He smelled of smoke and expensive cologne. He didn't look at the cast on my leg. He didn't ask how I was.

He marched to the bed, his face a mask of fury.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" he demanded.

I stared at him. "What?"

"The maid found your room stripped," he growled, leaning over the bed, invading my space. "Suitcases packed. Pictures destroyed. You were leaving. Before the fire, you were leaving."

"Yes," I said.

"You don't get to leave," he hissed. "Not until I say we're done."

"You left me in a burning building, Coleton," I said, my voice dead. "We're done."