25. Brooke

Iwoke up to the sterile scent of antiseptic and the distant sounds of the hospital: the muted beeping of machines, the soft tread of nurses" shoes on linoleum floors, and the indistinct murmur of voices discussing medical jargon I barely understood. The harsh fluorescent lighting added a clinical coldness to the room, stark against the comforting darkness of sleep I had been pulled from.

Connor was gone.

His absence was like a void beside me, noticeable and profound. I wasn"t surprised; the complexity of our relationship, shadowed by circumstances beyond our control, made such departures almost expected. Yet, the emptiness he left behind was palpable, a silent testament to the connection we had shared, now missing.

The chair where he had been sitting was empty, its vacancy a silent echo of his departure. I missed him, more than I thought possible, a longing that was bittersweet. The room felt larger without him, emptier, as if his presence had somehow made it smaller, more intimate. I wrapped my arms around myself, seeking comfort in the absence of his warmth, feeling adrift in the vastness of the hospital room that was now devoid of his reassuring presence.

Turning my attention to my father, I was met with a sight that clenched my heart with a visceral grip. He lay there, badly beaten, his face a tapestry of bruises and cuts, each one telling a story of violence he had endured. Despite the chaos etched into his features, he was asleep, or perhaps unconscious, a fragile peace that seemed at odds with the damage inflicted upon him. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest was the only indication of life amidst the stillness, a beacon of hope that he was still fighting, still holding on.

The beeping of the machines monitoring his vital signs became a morbid soundtrack to my thoughts, a reminder of the precarious thread between life and death. As I sat there, watching him, a mix of emotions churned within me: anger at those who had done this to him, fear for what the future held, and an overwhelming sadness for the father he had once been. The hospital room, with its sterile cleanliness and impersonal touch, felt like a limbo, a place suspended between hope and despair.

I wished for Connor"s return, not just for the comfort his presence brought, but for the strength I drew from him, strength I desperately needed now. The silence of the room pressed in on me. I reached out, my hand finding my father"s, seeking connection in the touch, a silent plea for him to fight, to come back to me.

How was I supposed to do this alone?

A nurse entered the room, her presence a soft intrusion into the somber stillness. She moved with a practiced efficiency, checking the various monitors and making notes on my father"s chart. She turned to me with a gentle expression. "Your father"s condition is stable for now," she began, her voice carrying a mix of clinical detachment and underlying warmth. "The next few hours are critical, but we"re doing everything we can for him." She paused, her gaze softening further. "And please, make sure you"re taking care of yourself too. It"s important to stay strong for when he wakes up. We're hoping he can leave before Christmas, but…"

But probably not. Not with his injuries.

With a final, sympathetic smile, she left, leaving me once again enveloped in the silence of the room.

Left to my own devices, my gaze wandered the room, landing on the small counter next to my chair. There, almost inconspicuously placed among the sterile hospital paraphernalia, was an envelope. It was unassuming, but my heart skipped a beat when I recognized the handwriting on the front—Connor"s small, spiky scrawl that spelled out my name. The sight of it stirred a tumult of emotions within me, curiosity and apprehension mingling in equal measure.

With a hesitance that betrayed my inner turmoil, I reached for the envelope, turning it over in my hands. The weight of it felt significant, as though the contents held the potential to change everything. Taking a deep breath, I tore it open, bracing myself for what I would find inside.

To my utter shock, the envelope contained the contract—the very agreement that had bound me to him, reducing me to little more than a servant.

But it was torn up, shredded in a way that left no doubt of its finality. The pieces lay in my hand, a symbol of severance, of a decision made unilaterally by Connor without a word of explanation.

Staring at the remnants of the contract, a myriad of thoughts raced through my mind. Why had he chosen to tear it up? What did this gesture mean for us, for the delicate balance we had navigated between obligation and the burgeoning feelings that had surprised us both?

The torn contract was a statement, a bold move that left more questions than answers. Yet, despite the confusion and the uncertainty it brought, I couldn"t help but feel a flicker of hope, a sense that maybe, just maybe, we were stepping into a new chapter, one not defined by agreements or expectations, but by something far more profound.

Just as I was trying to make sense of the torn contract in my hands, the room"s atmosphere shifted with the arrival of an unexpected visitor—Leo Wolfe. He entered with a confidence that filled the space, his presence undeniably striking. His appearance came with an air of nonchalance that belied the intensity of his gaze. The sight of him, here, in this hospital room, sparked a defensive anger within me.

I stood up abruptly, my stance confrontational. "What are you doing here?" I demanded, my voice sharper than I intended.

"Calm down," he said, his voice smooth, almost amused by my reaction. "You remind me of a pitbull. I"m just here to free your father from the debt he owed us officially."

"What are you talking about? That debt was paid weeks ago," I shot back, hoping he couldn't pick up on my confusion.

"It was," he agreed with a nod, his calm demeanor frustratingly intact. "Until your father racked up more. That was paid last night. Same account as before." Leo gave me a long look, one that seemed to assess me in a way that made me uncomfortable. "You must be something else, Westwood. Pussy that good that Connor Bradley would pay one point five initially and then another two hundred thou last night?" He grinned. "You know, you can always change your mind, be my bride. I"ll give your father one hell of a dowry."

"Just for him to spend it all again?" I growled, the very idea repulsive to me. "I don"t think so."

"Suit yourself," he said with a shrug, an infuriating smirk playing on his lips. "Although, I"m sure we"ll be seeing more of each other in the future. Your father has a problem. Clearly. And I"m more than happy to help him with it."

With that, he turned and left, leaving behind a chilling promise of future entanglements. His words hung heavy in the air, a foreboding echo of the complexities that lay ahead, tangled with my father"s vices and the unwelcome interest Leo Wolfe had taken in me.

As the door closed behind Leo Wolfe, the implications of his visit began to sink in, each word echoing in the silence he left behind. It dawned on me then what Connor had done—he had stepped in to help my father once again, despite everything. And in tearing up that contract, he had given me back my freedom, a gesture so profound in its implications that it left me reeling. The realization left me with both gratitude and an aching sense of loss.

What if this was Connor"s way of saying goodbye? What if, in freeing me, he was also freeing himself from the tangled web of my family"s problems, from a situation that had grown too complicated, too heavy to bear?

The thought that he might no longer want to deal with me or my family"s issues was a cold blade to the heart. Our relationship, if it could even be called that, had been built under the most unconventional and strained circumstances. Yet, despite—or perhaps because of—those circumstances, a connection had formed between us, one that felt as real and as significant as anything I"d ever experienced.

The possibility that he might have walked away, to remove himself from the chaos that seemed to follow me, was a thought too painful to entertain. But how else was I to interpret his actions, his silence, and the void his absence had left behind?

In silent the hospital room, with my father"s steady breathing the only sound, I felt more alone than ever. The fear that he might see me as just another complication in his already complicated life was paralyzing. The uncertainty of it all, the not knowing, was suffocating. Connor had stepped into my life and changed it in ways I was only just beginning to understand, and the thought of him stepping out just as quickly, leaving behind nothing but a void and a torn-up contract, was something I wasn"t sure I knew how to face.

I was lost in my thoughts and fears when a subtle change in the room"s atmosphere jolted me back to the present. My father"s eyelids fluttered, a sign of consciousness returning after what felt like an eternity of waiting. The relief that washed over me was immediate and overwhelming. As he slowly came to, confusion and pain etched across his features, I found myself grappling with a surge of emotions—relief, anger, and a determination that had been simmering beneath the surface.

Once it was clear he was alert enough to understand me, I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the confrontation that had been long overdue. "Dad," I began, my voice stronger than I felt, "we need to talk about your problem."

The room felt charged with tension, the weight of the words I had yet to speak hanging heavily between us.

"This gambling...it"s going to get you killed." The words tumbled out, a plea for him to see the gravity of his actions.

He looked at me then, really looked at me, and for a fleeting moment, I saw a glimmer of the man he used to be—a man who had once been strong and invincible in my eyes. But that image shattered as he turned away, a silent acknowledgment of the truth in my words. The silence that followed was deafening, a chasm widening with every unspoken word, every excuse left unsaid.

"I can"t keep doing this, Dad," I continued, the words pouring out now, fueled by a desperation to get through to him. "I can"t keep watching you destroy yourself. Your debts...they"re not just numbers on a page. They have consequences—real, life-threatening consequences." My voice cracked, the emotion I had been holding back breaking through.

"I nearly lost you," I whispered, the reality of the situation hitting me anew.

His response was barely audible that did little to soothe the ache in my heart. We sat in silence, the gulf between us filled with years of unaddressed issues, of pain and choices that had led us to this moment. It was a conversation that had needed to happen, yet as I looked at my father, broken and vulnerable in the hospital bed, I couldn"t help but wonder if it was too late for words to heal the wounds that had been left to fester for too long.

"And Bradley can"t keep paying your debts," I continued, my voice gaining strength as I spoke. "He worked hard for his money, and to waste it all on you...you take it for granted. You take me for granted. You involved me in this, and you didn"t even blink. We got you out of your mess so you could go back into it." I stood up, my body trembling. Shaking my head, I couldn"t help but feel a profound sense of finality. "I"m done, Dad."

"What... what are you saying?" he croaked, his voice barely above a whisper, a shadow of the man he once was.

"I can"t do this," I said, the clarity of my decision cutting through the room like a knife.

"Brooke..." He coughed, the sound raspy and filled with a vulnerability that tugged at my heartstrings.

But I steeled myself against the sight, against the surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm me. "No. Are you going to stop? Can you promise me, on my life, that you"ll stop?" I demanded, searching his face for any sign of the commitment I so desperately needed to see.

He looked at me, a myriad of emotions flickering across his face before he turned away, a silent admission that cut deeper than any words could. My heart shattered in that moment, a single tear rolling down my cheek as I realized the depth of our impasse.

"I can"t do this anymore," I said again, my voice breaking with the weight of my decision. "I"m glad you"re okay. Really, I am. But I"m begging you not to do this again because if you do... I won"t be there to save you. And Bradley won"t either."

The finality of my words echoed in the sterile hospital room as I turned and left, each step away from him a painful but necessary march towards a future I knew I had to face alone.