Fake Date, Real Fate
Chapter 154: Sincere Enough for You?

Chapter 154: Sincere Enough for You?

The light in the room had shifted. Dawn filtered faintly through the blinds, brushing pale gold across the linoleum floor. The machines had settled into slower, steadier rhythms. Isabella’s fever had broken an hour ago. Her breathing was easier now.

She was still unconscious—but resting.

The worst was over—according to them.

I hadn’t moved from my spot. Her hand was still in mine.

The chair groaned softly as I adjusted my grip, brushing my thumb over her knuckles again. I hadn’t slept. Couldn’t.

My phone buzzed once against the table.

Gray.

I answered, quietly.

"Speak."

Gray’s voice came through, low and direct. "It’s confirmed. The nurse didn’t do it on purpose. CCTV shows her grabbing the IV bag from the restock bin without checking the label. Her logs match. It was just a mistake. No connection to Caden or anyone else. No trace of intent."

"She just grabbed the wrong bag?" I said flatly.

"Yes. It was expired. The hospital inventory system should’ve flagged it. But it didn’t. Her fault, but also theirs."

I stared at the wall for a long second.

Then:

"Hmm."

And I cut the line.

ISABELLA’S POV

The first thing I registered was the quiet.

I felt no pain nor fire under my skin. Just the gentle whirr of machines and a cool breeze brushing against my damp hair. My body felt like it had been wrung out, heavy and aching—but I was alive.

I blinked once. The ceiling was white.

I blinked again—and turned my head.

Adrien.

He was seated beside the bed, his head bowed slightly, one hand curled around mine like he hadn’t let go in hours. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, and his shirt looked crumpled like he’d slept in it—or hadn’t slept at all. He looked beautiful. Devastated, exhausted... and beautiful.

I swallowed and found my voice. It came out hoarse. "You’re still here."

His head snapped up instantly.

Those auburn eyes locked onto mine like I’d just restarted his heart. The relief that washed over his face hit me harder than anything else.

"Isabella," he breathed, his voice a gravelly ruin. "You’re back."

"Hi," I managed, the corner of my mouth twitching into a weak smile.

A choked sound escaped his throat, half laugh, half sob. He leaned down and pressed his forehead against mine, his eyes closing. I could feel the slight tremble in his hands, the warmth of his skin a stark contrast to the memory of the icy poison that had flooded my veins. His five-o’clock shadow, now probably a twenty-four-hour shadow, was rough against my temple.

"Don’t you ever," he whispered, his voice thick, "ever do that to me again."

The words weren’t an order. They were a plea.

I lifted my free hand, the one not encased in his, and touched the crumpled fabric of his sleeve. "Wasn’t exactly on my list of fun things to do." My voice was getting a little stronger. "What... happened? I remember... burning."

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his expression shifting. The raw relief was still there, but it was being overlaid, layer by layer, with the ice-cold fury I knew so well. His jaw was tight.

"There was a mix-up," he said, his voice clipped. "With the IV. They gave you potassium chloride instead of saline."

I blinked. "They... what?"

Adrien exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, like he was physically restraining the storm brewing under his skin. "The bag was expired. Degraded. Your body reacted. Violently."

"Oh." That was all I could manage. Just... oh.

I glanced down at my arm, at the faint outline where the IV line had been. A ghost of pain flickered there, more memory than sensation.

He noticed the direction of my gaze. "It’s gone," he said. "New fluids. Broad-spectrum antibiotics. You’ll be fine now."

I nodded slowly. "You look like hell."

"Good," he muttered. "So do you."

I smiled at that—tired, but real. "Flirting already?"

He leaned back just enough to scan my face, his thumb still moving across the back of my hand like he couldn’t stop. "Just being honest."

"Mm," I hummed. "Honest Adrien is intense."

"Honest Adrien watched you burn up and couldn’t do a damn thing about it."

That silenced me. For a beat, maybe two.

"Still," I said quietly, "you stayed."

He looked at me like I’d said something insane. "Of course my love, I stayed."

"My hair smells like hospital sheets and regret."

"You almost died. Forgive me if your shampoo wasn’t my top priority."

A weak laugh slipped out of me. "You’re not even going to pretend I’m fragrant and glowing?"

"No," he said, dry. "You need a bath."

My jaw dropped. "Wow. Romantic."

He was already reaching for the control to elevate the bed. "Can you sit up?"

I shifted, wincing slightly, but managed to rise a few inches. "I think so."

"Good. If you can stand, you can clean."

"Excuse you." I narrowed my eyes. "You’re supposed to coddle me."

He quirked a brow. "Would you like me to draw you a bath and sing lullabies?"

"I’d like you to beg."

His head tilted slightly. "Beg?"

"Mm-hmm." I turned my face to him. "Like this. Please, Isabella. My dearest, most radiant, even-when-she-smells-like-a-chemical-spill, love of my life."

"What?"

"I want heart. Soul. Oscars-worthy performance. With sincerity. Full monologue."

I expected him to roll his eyes. Scoff. Say something sarcastic.

Instead—

He stood. Took a slow step back.

And then he knelt.

On one knee.

Like a dark, disheveled prince in designer clothes and bruised knuckles. His hands still holding mine.

I forgot how to breathe.

His gaze was a physical weight, pinning me to the mattress. The exhaustion in his features had been carved away, replaced by an intensity so profound it vibrated in the air between us. The playful challenge died on my tongue, turning to ash. This wasn’t a game to him.

"You want a monologue?" he asked, his voice low and raspy, the sound scraping against the sudden silence of the room. He didn’t wait for an answer. His thumb stroked my knuckles, a slow, deliberate rhythm. "I sat here for hours, Isabella. I listened to every hiss and beep of these machines. I watched the numbers on that monitor go up and down. And every time a number went the wrong way, a piece of me went with it."

My throat tightened, the words I wanted to say—stop, you don’t have to—getting stuck behind the lump forming there.

"You want to know what I was thinking about?" he continued, his auburn eyes burning into mine. "It wasn’t your hair. It wasn’t your skin. It was the silence. The idea of a world where I couldn’t hear your voice, couldn’t hear you laugh at something stupid, couldn’t even hear you argue with me. The thought of that quiet... it’s the only thing in this world that has ever truly terrified me."

He leaned in closer, his grip on my hand tightening almost painfully. "I would have you coated in mud and filth for the rest of our lives if it meant you were breathing. I wouldn’t care if you smelled of smoke and ashes, so long as I could feel the warmth under your skin. I would trade every good thing I have ever known just to hear you say my name again."

His voice broke on the last word. A single, ragged crack in his armor.

"So," he whispered, his forehead nearly touching our joined hands. "Please, princess. My radiant, infuriating, impossible love. Get up. Wash the scent of this place off you. Wash the memory of it from your skin. And come back to me. All the way back."

My mouth opened. Nothing came out.

He arched a brow. "Was that sincere enough for you?"

I opened my mouth again. Still nothing.

Heat exploded across my face like someone had set off fireworks inside my veins. "You... you actually..."

He smirked. "I’m a man of my word."

I slapped a hand over my face. "I didn’t think you’d do it! It was a bluff! You were supposed to roll your eyes and call me impossible!"

"Mm. Unfortunately for you, I have no pride when it comes to pleasing my woman."

I groaned into my hand.

But he wasn’t done.

He stood—slowly, gracefully—and leaned down until his lips brushed the shell of my ear. "You know I have no problem bathing you myself, right?"

I practically levitated. "Adrien—"

"Very gentle," he murmured, stepping back with maddening calm. "Very thorough."

"STOP."

He smirked. "Now," he murmured, voice low and warning-smooth, "do you want to bathe on your own..."

I swallowed.

"Or should I help you myself?"