The Don's Regret: Losing His Life Saver

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.