Trapped In The Billionaire's Past

On getting to the hospital, Isla jumped out before the car had even stopped. She shouted for help, her voice sharp and desperate, echoing off the white walls of the emergency bay. Within seconds, a team of nurses and doctors rushed toward them with a stretcher.

The man was lifted out of the car in a blur of motion, his limp arm falling against her as they carried him inside.

She followed them through the automatic doors, her breath uneven, hands trembling so badly she had to hold them together. Someone told her to wait behind the red line. She did. She watched as the doors swung shut and swallowed him, leaving her in the hum of machines and fluorescent lights that buzzed louder than her thoughts.

Her clothes were sticky with something she didn’t want to think about. Her throat burned, and she realized she hadn’t taken a proper breath since they left the street. The smell of antiseptic filled the air — too clean, too sharp. She sank into one of the plastic chairs in the waiting area, clutching her elbows, as people came and went around her like she wasn’t even there.

Minutes passed. Then an hour. Then more. Every time the doors opened, she looked up, hoping someone would tell her something, anything. Nobody did.

Through the narrow glass window, Isla caught flashes of motion — doctors moving fast, voices rising, the sound of something that made her stomach twist.

“We’re losing him!” someone shouted inside. The air changed — sharp, tense. “Heart rate’s dropping—now!” another voice followed.

“Clear!” came next, and then a muffled thud, followed by the long, flat sound that made Isla’s knees go weak. Nurses rushed in and out, their faces tight with focus, hands moving too fast for her eyes to follow.

She didn’t understand what any of it meant, but her body did — every muscle tensed, her chest tight, her palms cold. “Please,” she whispered, to no one in particular, not even sure if she was praying.

When a nurse finally came out, Isla was already on her feet, heart hammering. “How is he?” she asked, her voice barely holding together.

“He’s in surgery,” the nurse said softly. “They’re doing everything they can. You should sit. It’ll take a few hours.”

A few hours. Isla nodded, but her legs wouldn’t move. She stayed standing, eyes fixed on the door the nurse disappeared through.

The hours crawled by, one after another. The white clock on the wall ticked so loudly she thought it might drive her mad. People around her came and went — a crying child, an elderly man coughing, a woman pacing with a coffee cup — all of them with their own lives falling apart. Isla felt invisible, like she’d been left behind in the noise of other people’s tragedies.

When the double doors finally opened again, it was past midnight. A doctor came out, mask hanging from one ear, his face drawn but calm.

“He made it through surgery,” he said. “He’s in intensive care now. Stable, for the moment.”

For the moment. The words lodged somewhere in Isla’s throat. “Can I see him?” she asked quietly.

The doctor paused, studying her for a beat. “He’s in critical condition — still in recovery. You can’t go inside,” he said gently. Then he nodded toward a nurse. “She’ll take you to the observation window.”

In few hours, they led her down a quiet hallway, the lights dimmed, machines beeping steadily in the background. A nurse handed her a disposable gown, a mask, and a cap. Isla tied them on with shaky fingers and stepped toward the glass door.

He was there, lying still under white sheets, wires running from his arms to a cluster of machines. His skin looked pale, fragile. She couldn’t see much of his face, but when she moved closer, his eyes fluttered — barely open.

A nurse mentioned softly that the anesthesia was starting to wear off. Isla barely breathed, her eyes fixed on the still figure behind the glass.

Then, his fingers twitched. His lips parted slightly, a rough breath catching in his throat — like someone fighting their way back from a dream.

“Hey,” she whispered, not even sure if he could hear.

For a moment, he seemed to focus on her. His lips moved, dry and slow. “Aria…”

The word barely formed, slipping out like a breath. Isla froze. “What?”

But his eyes closed again, the machines hummed on, and a nurse gently took her arm. “You should wait outside,” she said.

Back in the waiting area, Isla sat in silence, her thoughts circling that single word — Aria. Who was she? A sister? A girlfriend? His wife? Whoever she was, she was someone he’d thought of first. Someone who wasn’t Isla.

The sound of footsteps broke through her thoughts. Two police officers approached, one man, one woman, both wearing tired expressions. The woman spoke first. “Miss Reyes?”

“Yes,” Isla said, standing. Her voice came out smaller than she expected.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions about the accident earlier tonight.”

“Of course,” she said quickly. “I was just helping. I found him on the road—”

The male officer flipped open a small notebook. “Did you see what happened?”

“No, I just heard the crash. People were standing around. No one was doing anything, so I called for help.”

He nodded slowly. “And how did you get him here?”

“A man stopped — a driver. I don’t know his name. He helped me bring him here.”

“Is the driver still here?”

Isla looked around instinctively. The spot near the entrance was empty. Her chest tightened. “He—he left after we got here.”

The officers exchanged a look. Not hostile, but cautious. The woman’s tone softened. “Do you have any ID on you?”

Isla handed it over, her hands still shaking. The man jotted something down. “Miss Reyes, we’re just trying to understand the situation,” he said. “The witness who called in mentioned a hit-and-run, but the car you arrived in doesn’t match the description. We’ll need you to come with us to give a formal statement.”

“Can’t we do it here?” she asked. “I want to wait until he wakes up—”

“It’ll just take a few minutes,” the woman officer said. “You can call someone to meet you there.”

She rubbed her hands together. Her phone — where was her phone? She checked her bag, her pockets, the floor around her chair. Nothing. It must’ve fallen somewhere in the chaos.

“I—” Isla stopped. Her phone. “I lost my phone,” she admitted, her voice cracking.

Panic fluttered in her chest again. She couldn’t call her mother, couldn’t call Clara. She had no one.

The officers hesitated, then the man sighed. “Alright, we’ll sort it out at the station. You can make a call once we get there.”

She nodded, swallowing hard. Her head felt light, like everything around her was tilting slightly off balance. The woman placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, guiding her toward the door.

The night air hit her like cold water. Red and blue lights pulsed against the pavement, painting her face in flashes.

“Miss Reyes, please step in,” the officer said.

She slid into the backseat. The door closed with a dull click. Through the window, the hospital lights blurred into the dark — somewhere inside, the man she’d saved was still breathing.Her hands trembled in her lap, the chill sinking deep.

He lived. Yet she was the one being taken away.