His for a year. - Chapter 42: Chapter 42

“Hey,” he said softly.
I blinked. “Hi.”
He came closer, hesitating before he pulled a chair next to my bed. He sat down, slowly, his eyes didn't leave mine.
Then, gently—so gently I barely felt it—he took my hand.
His palm was warm, it swallowed mine. It was rough, familiar.
He used his other hand to rub the back of mine, slow, rhythmic strokes that made my chest ache in ways I didn’t want to acknowledge.
I didn’t pull away.
I didn’t want to.
For some strange reason, I liked the feeling. I liked the comfort in his touch, even though I hated myself for it.
He stared at our joined hands for a moment before looking up at me.
“You scared me,” he said finally, his voice low and tight. “Olive, you really—” His voice cracked. He swallowed, stopping himself intentionally, then tried again. “How are you feeling?”
I couldn’t find the words. My throat tightened.
How was I supposed to answer that?
I was hurting. Confused. Torn.
But also strangely… warm. And safe. Just from his hand on mine.
I took a shaky breath.
“I’m alive,” I whispered.
His grip tightened for a heartbeat. Just slightly, then loosened.
His eyes met mine again, shining under the dull fluorescent lights. “Thank God,” he said.
I saw something in his eyes that I hadn’t seen before.
Not control. Not arrogance.
But something broken. Something real. Something vulnerable.
And it scared me more than the accident ever did.
I watched his thumb brush slowly over my knuckles. It was soothing in a way that made my chest tighten again, my heart didn’t know if it should shatter or mend itself.
My voice came out smaller than I intended. “Have you… been watching me?”
His eyes flicked up to mine, startled. He hesitated, then gave a slow nod. “Not like that. Not in a creepy way. Not to invade your space,” he said. “Just to make sure you were okay.”
My brows furrowed. “So… you saw the accident happen?”
He nodded again, this time more firmly. “I was in the car parked nearby. I had a feeling something wasn’t right, Olive. And when that car hit you…” He stopped, looking away like the memory itself burned. “I ran. I tried to reach you. I called the ambulance. I—I couldn’t let Aliyah see you like that. Not like that.”
I sucked in a breath.
The memories were blurry, fading around the edges—but I remembered the voice. The desperate banging on the window. The way I’d thought I was hallucinating him.
“I thought I imagined you,” I whispered.
He gave a sad smile. “You didn’t.”
A lump rose in my throat. He hadn’t just seen it happen, he was there. He had called for help. He stayed.
Despite everything.
“I called Aliyah after the doctors stabilized you,” he added. “I didn’t want her to see you with blood on your face… tubes down your throat. I—I couldn’t let that image of you in her head. It's better it's in mine.”
Something inside me cracked open. A small, jagged wound letting in too much warmth and too much pain all at once.
“Thank you,” I murmured, my eyes glistening. “For… everything.”
He shifted in the chair, leaning forward. His grip on my hand hadn’t loosened. If anything, it felt steadier now. Stronger.
“Olive,” he said, his voice rough. “You’re still my wife.”
My breath caught.
“I know we didn’t start this perfectly,” he continued. “I know things got messy, complicated, and unfair. But every couple fights. Every couple stumbles.”
I stared at him, not daring to blink. My heart was thundering in my chest again.
“This…” He gestured between us. “This is our fight. This is our mess. But I don’t want you to leave because of it.”
My fingers trembled in his.
“You’re worrying me too much,” he whispered. “And now you’re proving my worry.”
I let out a shaky breath. My body still ached, my head pounded, but somehow, none of that compared to the chaos inside my heart.
He looked at me like I was the only thing tethering him to sanity.
“Let me protect you,” he said softly. “Let me in, so I can worrying. Please.”
I swallowed hard, the tears threatening again. Not from pain. Not from fear.
But from the way he said please. He'd never used that on me. In fact, I'd never heard him say it since I got involved with him.
He said it like a man begging the universe not to lose what he couldn’t replace.
I looked down at our joined hands—his strong, warm grip wrapped around my still-aching fingers—and then back at his face. He looked like a man hanging on by a thread.
“I don’t know how I feel about that,” I said quietly. “About this. About… everything.”
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t let go.
“I already walked out of the contract, Zade. I left.”
“I’m not holding that against you,” he said quickly, cutting in. “I don’t care about that. It doesn’t matter. We had a fight, Olive. Couples fight. It was messy, yeah… but it’s done. We can forget it and just continue from where we stopped.”
I blinked at him. Continue from where we stopped.
Like I could pick up my heart from the floor and pretend it wasn’t still bruised.
“I’ll think about it,” I whispered.
He exhaled slowly, but the corner of his mouth twitched just slightly, like that was all the hope he needed.
There was a beat of silence between us, warm and thick and full of unspoken things. Then his expression shifted, clouding with something deeper. Something more serious.
“Can I ask you something?” he said, voice suddenly lower.
I nodded, cautiously.
“What exactly is going on between you and Ray?” he asked. “You… cried in his arms. Why were you so comfortable with him?”
The question landed hard—sharp, direct, and more revealing than he probably meant it to be.
I adjusted my head on the pillow, frowning. “Because he was there.”
He stilled.
“And because he cares,” I added, my voice steady now. “Not like you.”
That stung him. I saw it.
His shoulders tensed, and for a second, he looked like he was about to argue. But instead, he looked down at our hands again.
“I’ve always been there,” he murmured, so low I almost didn’t catch it. “You just don’t see it.”
My breath hitched.
Those words sliced deeper than any raised voice or cold silence ever could.
I hadn’t seen it.
Or maybe I just hadn’t wanted to believe it.
I looked at him, really looked—at the man who controlled everything, now sitting beside me helplessly, like he’d hand over his whole world just to keep me safe.
And for the first time in a long while… I didn’t know what to say.
The door creaked open, and Aliyah and Jake walked in, carrying two small bags and a tray of fruit. Aliyah’s eyes narrowed the second she saw Zade seated next to me, still holding my hand.
She dropped the bag a little louder than necessary. “What are you doing holding her hand like that?”
Zade slowly pulled his hand back, gentle and unhurried, like he didn’t want to but knew he had to. I instantly missed the warmth.
“Aliyah,” I said softly, giving her a look. “Be nice. And respectful.”
She folded her arms, still glaring. “I’m just asking a question.”
“I’d like to stay with her tonight,” Zade said, calm but firm. “If she’ll let me.”
“What?” Her voice spiked. “Absolutely not—”
“He seems sincere,” Jake cut in gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. “And you need rest. You haven’t really slept.”
She looked from Jake to me and back at Zade, frustration written all over her face. But I nodded.
“It’s fine,” I said. “I want him to stay.”
Aliyah huffed, clearly outvoted, but when she turned to the door, she paused. Her shoulders dropped a little, and she looked back at Zade.
“Thank you,” she mumbled, her voice quiet. “For calling the ambulance… and me. And for staying. Please take care of her.”
He nodded once, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll take care of her.”
“You better,” Aliyah muttered under her breath, then let Jake steer her out of the room.
As the door closed, Zade pulled out his phone and dialed quickly. “Bring me a change of clothes. Yeah, the hospital.”
He hung up and looked at me, his face unreadable now.
For a long moment, neither of us said anything. But in the silence, something tender settled in the air—unspoken forgiveness, cautious hope, and the fragile beginnings of something more.
Something real.
He got a call and excused himself. After a while, he came in– he'd changed into shorts and plain tee. He sat back down beside the bed. The light in the room was dim now, the only sounds coming were from the machines quietly monitoring my vitals and the occasional shuffle of a nurse outside.
He looked tired. Not just physically—deeply tired, like a man who hadn’t been sleeping, eating, or breathing right for days.
“I’ve been thinking about the accident every passing hour,” he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. “Every time I close my eyes, I see that car hit you. I hear your voice. I see the blood.” He exhaled hard, running his hands through his hair. “I thought I was going to lose you, and I didn’t even know if I deserved to panic.”
His words struck something deep in me.
He turned to me again, eyes locked on mine. “You think I don’t care, Olive? I’ve cared for as long as I can remember.”
I swallowed hard, emotion prickling behind my eyes.
Then, softer, he added, “I will get the person responsible for this. Every single person.”
A beat passed. My heart was doing somersaults, my throat dry.
I opened my mouth to respond, but he shook his head, standing slowly. “You don’t have to say anything now. Just rest.”
If anyone had told me that Zade Avner Lloyd—billionaire, tech CEO, emotionally unavailable husband-for-hire—would be sleeping on a tiny couch in a hospital room just to watch over me… I would’ve laughed in their face.
But there he was.
His tall frame awkwardly folded onto the little visitor’s couch, his blazer balled up as a makeshift pillow.
He was so cute.
He wasn’t even facing me—his back to the bed, arm hanging off the edge like someone afraid to move and ruin a dream.
I watched him for a while, quietly, almost selfishly.
I didn't know when I dozed off but I woke up pretty early, it was dawn already. Was it because he was in the room?
I watched him as he stirred, his eyes blinking open like they were trained to find mine. When he caught me watching, I panicked and looked away quickly, pretending to adjust my blanket.
He chuckled—a warm, breathy sound that made my chest ache for reasons I didn’t want to name.
“You’re awake,” he said, stretching a little.
I cleared my throat. “Barely.”
Without another word, he got up and walked out.
I thought maybe he was leaving… until he returned a minute later with a bowl of warm water, a towel folded over his arm, and a soft, determined look in his eyes.
“I’m going to clean you up,” he said simply, as if it were the most normal thing to say in the world.
My brows shot up. “Zade, I don’t need—”
“The nurses already think we’re a perfectly-in-love married couple,” he interrupted, setting the bowl down on the bedside table. “If I call one of them to help, someone might whisper something to the press. I can’t risk it.”
“I’m fine,” I argued weakly.
“You smell like fear and anesthesia,” he said with a teasing smirk, dipping the towel in the water.
“Zade—”
“Olive.” His tone dropped—gentle but firm. “Let me do this.”
Something about the way he said it—like he needed to, for reasons even he hadn’t sorted out—made my chest tighten. So I exhaled and gave a small nod.
He squeezed out the towel and started with my hands, wiping gently in slow, circular motions. His touch was careful, reverent even—like I was something breakable. Something he couldn’t afford to damage any further.
When he moved to my neck, my breath hitched. His fingers brushed behind my ear, and I could swear that electricity bloomed under my skin.
“You don’t have to look at me like that,” I murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
“Like what?” he asked, dipping the towel again.
“Like I’m about to disappear.”
He paused, his eyes locking onto mine. “Because you almost did.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
He continued dabbing around my collarbone, careful not to touch the IV lines or bandages. The towel was warm, the silence thick.
“You’re blushing,” he murmured with the ghost of a grin.
“I’m injured,” I said quickly.
“And flustered.”
“I’m sedated.”
“Sure,” he said, brushing lightly down my arm. “Let’s go with that.”
I closed my eyes, mostly because looking at him felt like exposing too much of myself. His gentleness. His patience. His presence.
Who was this version of Zade?
Because the man pressing warm cloth to my skin like I was sacred… didn’t feel like a lie. He felt real.
And terrifyingly close. Too close.
He worked in silence, like he was memorizing every inch of me—every part he almost lost.
When he got to my legs, I tensed.