Chapter 207
Henry burst out of the hospital room like he was escaping a burning building, except the flames were inside him. His eyes were wet and blurry, making the corridor warp and twist as he stumbled forward. The fluorescent lights above buzzed sharply—too bright, too loud—like they were mocking the chaos inside him. Each breath scraped through his chest, raw and uneven, and Eliana’s words kept slamming into him over and over, cruel and soft all at once:
“I love you… but I’m not in love with you p>
It felt like someone had reached into his chest and twisted something vital. He swallowed hard, shoving past nurses who watched with wide eyes. Someone called after him—”Sir? Sir, are you okay?”—but Henry didn’t slow down. He couldn’t. If he stopped, he’d shatter right there on the hospital floor.
The doors hissed open, and the weirdly cool afternoon air punched him in the face. It didn’t soothe him; it just pulled him further into the numbness creeping up his spine. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed like the city itself was mourning with him. His fingers shook as he dug for his car keys, breathing hard, his heart pounding in this painful, uneven rhythm.
He had loved Eliana for years—quietly, fiercely, stupidly. Through college. Through her relationship with Jason. Through her disappearance. Through her fights with Rafael Vexley, through every moment she ran back to him, a man whose soul was ice and whose money rotted everything it touched. Yet she chose him again. Chose the man who broke her.
When the BMW roared to life beneath him, Henry barely noticed. He tore out of the parking lot, the tires screeching their protest as he sped into the night. The city blurred around him—lights smearing into streaks, memories flashing like ghosts. Her laugh in the library. Her sleepy texts. The fragile hope in her eyes when she agreed to London. The small things he held onto because he thought—he really thought—she’d finally chosen him.
But hope was a dangerous liar.
By the time he noticed the dingy bar ahead—a run-down spot with a flickering neon sign that read The Rusty Anchor—his vision was already swimming. The place looked worse than the bar from last night, a whole different level of pathetic, but Henry didn’t care about ambience. He cared about silence. About something strong enough to drown out the ache clawing up his throat.
He slammed the car door and walked inside.
The bar smelled like old regrets—stale beer, cigarettes, and a lifetime of people trying to forget something. Shadows clung to the corners. A few haggard men hunched over their glasses, barely lifting their eyes when Henry approached.
He dropped onto a stool, leaning his forearms on the counter as if the wood could somehow hold him together.
“Whiskey,” he said, voice hoarse. “Double. And don’t stop pouring p>
The bartender—a middle-aged man with tired eyes and a faded snake tattoo curling around his forearm—looked Henry up and down. His suit. His watch. His broken expression.
“Hell of a night?” he asked, though he was already pulling the bottle from the shelf.
Henry didn’t respond. He just tossed back the first glass in one sharp tilt of his head. The whiskey scorched its way down, burning a hole through the grief in his chest.
“Another,” he whispered, his voice scraping like gravel.
And the bartender nodded, already refilling the glass.
Hours blurred into a haze. One drink turned into five, then ten. The alcohol dulled the edges of his heartbreak but ignited a reckless fire within. He found himself talking to a stranger at the end of the bar—a burly man with a shaved head and a leather jacket, nursing a beer. “Women, am I right?” Henry slurred, his warm eyes now bloodshot and unfocused. “They rip your heart out and stomp on it p>
The man chuckled darkly. “Tell me about it, buddy. Mine left me for my best friend. What’s your story p>
Henry laughed bitterly, the sound hollow. “The girl I’ve loved for years just told me I’m like a brother to her. And now she’s marrying some rich prick to ’protect’ me. Protect me? From what? Her own mess p>
The conversation turned ugly when another patron—a stocky guy with a beer gut and a foul mouth—overheard and butted in. “Sounds like you’re the prick, crying over some chick. Man up p>
Henry’s temper, fueled by grief and liquor, snapped. “What did you say?” he growled, standing unsteadily, his tall frame towering over the man.
“You heard me,” the guy sneered, shoving Henry back. “Pathetic p>
Fists flew in a chaotic blur. Henry landed a solid punch to the man’s jaw, but the alcohol slowed him. The burly stranger joined in, turning it into a full brawl. Tables overturned, glasses shattered, and shouts filled the air. “Break it up!” the bartender yelled, but it was too late. A bottle cracked against Henry’s head, sending a sharp pain exploding through his skull. Warm blood trickled down his temple, mixing with sweat and tears. He stumbled out into the night, bruised and battered, the world spinning around him.
Disoriented, Henry wandered the streets, his phone buzzing incessantly in his pocket—Eliana’s calls, no doubt. He ignored them, his mind fixated on the one person who’d shown him kindness recently: Isabella Voss. They’d met just last night, now, in his broken state, her doorstep seemed like the only safe harbor.
Forgetting all about his car still parked in front of the bar, he hailed a cab, mumbling her address through swollen lips. The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “You okay, man? You look like hell p>
“Just drive,” Henry muttered, shaking uncontrollably as sobs wracked his body.
When the cab finally rolled to a stop in front of Isabella’s penthouse—the one perched high above the city like it owned the skyline—Henry almost fell out of the backseat. He caught himself on the doorframe, but barely. Blood trickled from the wound on his head and a fresh cut above his eyebrow, dripping warm trails down his temple. His suit jacket was gone, God knows where, and his white shirt was a disaster—torn open, smeared with dirt, blood, and the lingering stench of the night he’d barely survived.
He fumbled for his wallet, pulling out nearly everything inside and shoving the cash at the driver with shaking hands. “Keep it,” he muttered.
But the cab driver—a man with tired eyes and the kind of compassion Henry hadn’t seen in hours—shook his head. “You’ve had a rough enough night, sir. Just what’s owed.” He pressed the rest of the money gently back into Henry’s hand.
Henry stared at it for a beat, swallowed the lump in his throat, then crumpled the bills and shoved them back into his wallet. He couldn’t even manage a proper thank you. He was too numb. Too raw.
Staggering into the building, he leaned on the marble walls for balance. The lobby’s polished floors reflected his broken image back at him—bloodied, disheveled, completely lost. He stabbed the elevator button with a trembling hand, stepped inside, and slumped against the mirrored wall as the lift carried him upward. Every passing floor tightened the knot in his chest.
When he reached the penthouse level, Henry dragged himself to Isabella’s door and pounded hard, each hit leaving a dark, bloody print. The sound echoed through the quiet hallway like a warning bell.
Inside, Isabella had been arranging her dinner—wine poured, plates set, soft music humming. The knock startled her. With a sigh, she walked over, thinking it was a neighbor or a late delivery.
But when she swung the door open, the breath was punched right out of her.
Henry stood there—broken, bleeding, barely upright.
Her green eyes flew wide, shock freezing her in place. The soft hallway lights hit her high cheekbones and flowing red hair, making her look almost unreal in her silk robe… but none of that mattered. Not when she saw him like this.
“Henry?” Her voice cracked, hand flying to her mouth. “Oh my God—what happened to you p>
To be continued p>