The Promotion

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The first thing that greeted me was the smell.

Sharp. Sterile. Overwhelming.

Disinfectant clung to the air, invading my senses before I was even fully conscious. It settled at the back of my throat, metallic and bitter, making my stomach churn. I hadn't opened my eyes yet, but light pressed insistently against my eyelids, too bright, too unforgiving. Somewhere nearby, a steady beep... beep... beep cut through the silence like a metronome keeping time.

I'm alive.

The thought came slowly, cautiously—like touching something fragile to make sure it didn't shatter. The last thing I remembered was darkness closing in, the sound of Alexander's voice breaking as he shouted my name. I had truly believed, in that moment, that I was dying.

My body felt impossibly heavy, as if I were sinking into the mattress. Every limb was weighed down, unresponsive, as though gravity had doubled overnight. I tried to move my fingers—nothing. Tried to turn my head—pain flared in protest.

I forced my eyes open.

At first, everything was blurred, washed in white and pale green. I squeezed my eyes shut again, blinking repeatedly, fighting through the haze. Slowly, shapes began to sharpen. The ceiling above me was stark white. A light green blanket was tucked neatly over my body. To my left stood a monitor, its screen glowing softly, wires snaking down toward me.

A dull ache throbbed in my hand.

I glanced down and saw the IV needle taped securely into my skin, a clear tube feeding something cold and unfamiliar into my veins. The realisation settled in with a strange calm.

I'm in a hospital.

Questions rushed in all at once, crowding my mind. How long had I been here? What happened after I blacked out? Where were Charles and Viv? Was Alexander safe?

I turned my head to the right.

And suddenly, none of that mattered.

Alexander was there.

He sat slumped in a grey armchair beside my bed, fast asleep in a way that told me he hadn't planned to be. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, his head tipped awkwardly to the side. Soft brown waves of hair fell into his face, unruly and unkempt—nothing like the composed man I knew at work.

Even like this—exhausted, uncomfortable, vulnerable—he looked devastating.

A warmth spread through my chest at the sight of him, easing some of the pain I hadn't realised I was holding. My fingers twitched, the instinct to reach for him almost overwhelming. I wanted to smooth his hair back, trace the tension from his brow, tell him I was okay.

As if sensing me, Alexander stirred.

His head shifted slightly. Then his eyes opened.

For a split second, confusion flickered across his face. Then he saw me.

He was on his feet instantly, the chair scraping softly against the floor. In two strides he was beside me, one arm wrapping around my shoulders while his other hand clasped mine tightly, as though letting go wasn't an option.

"You're awake," he breathed, pressing his forehead gently to mine.

His voice wasn't polished or controlled—it was raw. Relief trembled through every word. I closed my eyes, leaning into him despite the ache in my body. Just being this close to him made me feel grounded, safe.

I tried to speak, but my throat betrayed me. All that came out was a dry, broken sound.

Alexander pulled back immediately, panic flashing in his eyes. He turned toward the bedside cabinet, hands visibly shaking as he poured water into a plastic cup. Propping me up carefully, he guided the straw to my lips.