Chapter 3 - The Wolf in the Hospital Ward
Tristan Bellamy froze for a fraction of a second as his dark eyes locked onto Bianca’s pale, wide-eyed face. Recognition flashed instantly between them—sharp, undeniable, and heavy with unspoken history.
Bianca’s mind raced in a wild, panicked circle. Of all the hospitals in Manhattan. Of all the rooms in this massive facility. Why is the mystery billionaire from the underground garage standing in my patient’s room?
Eleanor Bellamy beamed, completely oblivious to the sudden, suffocating tension filling the private suite.
"Ah, perfect! Tristan, come in, come in," Eleanor called out warmly, gesturing for her son to approach the bed. "This is Bianca, my wonderful nurse today. Bianca, this is my son, Tristan."
Tristan maintained direct eye contact with Bianca, a slow, calculated stillness settling over his broad frame. He didn't look like a grieving or worried son in that moment; he looked like a hunter who had just casually walked up to the exact spot where his favorite prey had reappeared.
Bianca swallowed hard, forcing her professional mask back into place. She straightened her posture, reminding herself sternly that she was a registered nurse—not the exhausted, dribbling mess who had fallen asleep on his lap three days ago.
"Mr. Bellamy," Bianca said, her voice holding remarkably steady despite the frantic thumping of her heart.
Tristan stepped further into the room, closing the distance between them with slow, deliberate strides. The air pressure in the ward seemed to drop ten degrees as he approached. He stopped just a foot away from her, towering over her petite frame, his dark gaze scanning her face as if searching for lingering traces of embarrassment.
The corner of his lips lifted into the faintest, most dangerous ghost of a smile.
"I guess this time," Tristan said quietly, his low baritone washing over her like velvet, "you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be."
Bianca’s breath hitched. She could feel the heat rushing to her cheeks, though she desperately willed herself not to blush. Did he recognize her instantly? Of course he did. Men like Tristan Bellamy didn't forget faces—especially not a sleep-deprived nurse who accidentally invaded their personal space.
"Yes, Mr. Bellamy," Bianca replied smoothly, lifting her chin with a spark of stubborn defiance. "And unlike my driving navigation, my medical charts are always accurate."
Tristan let out a low, gravelly chuckle—a sound so rare and unexpected that Eleanor whipped her head around in absolute shock, staring at her notoriously stoic son as if he had grown a second head.
"Well," Eleanor beamed, clapping her hands together softly. "It seems my son has finally found someone who isn't terrified of him. That’s a first."
"Mother, please," Tristan murmured, though his dark eyes never left Bianca’s face. "Nurse Carter is just doing her job."
"For now," Eleanor muttered under her breath with a knowing wink.
For the rest of the morning shift, Bianca felt like she was walking across a tightrope suspended over an active volcano. Every time she checked Eleanor’s vitals, adjusted her medication, or changed her bandages, she could feel Tristan’s heavy, unblinking gaze burning into the back of her neck. He didn't leave the room. He sat in the corner armchair with a laptop balanced on his knees, pretending to work, but his eyes tracked her every single movement with predatory precision.
By the time her shift ended at 3:00 PM, Bianca’s nerves were completely frayed. She shed her white lab coat in the locker room, grabbed her bag, and practically sprinted down the hospital corridor, hoping to make a clean escape before Tristan could intercept her.
She pushed open the glass doors of St. Catherine’s main entrance, drawing in a deep breath of fresh air.
"Running away again, Miss Carter?" a smooth, rich voice echoed from right beside the stone pillar.
Bianca jumped, whirling around.
May you like
Leaning against the driver’s side door of a familiar, pristine black SUV parked right at the curb was Tristan Bellamy.
---
