Chapter 2 - The Memory in the Rain
The private room on the top floor of St. Jude’s Hospital felt more like a five-star luxury suite than a medical facility. Soft, warm lighting illuminated the room, and the soft hum of advanced heart monitors provided a steady, comforting rhythm.
Della lay in the high-end adjustable bed, an IV line hooked to her left arm, her right hand carefully cleaned and neatly bandaged.
Beside the bed, a high-resolution ultrasound monitor glowed brightly. The chief of obstetrics, Dr. Helen Vance (no relation to Arthur's family), smiled warmly as she moved the transducer wand across Della's exposed, gel-covered belly.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.
The sound filled the quiet room—strong, fast, and healthy.
Della let out a breath she felt like she had been holding for hours. Tears spilled over her eyelashes, tracing warm paths down her pale cheeks. "Is... is the baby really okay, Doctor?"
"Your baby is a fighter, Della," Dr. Vance reassured her, wiping the gel off her stomach and pulling the white blanket up. "No internal bleeding, no placental abruption. Your hip has a minor bruise, and your hand required four stitches, but the child is completely safe and unharmed."
Della closed her eyes, placing both hands over her belly, whispering a prayer of overwhelming gratitude.
Standing near the floor-to-ceiling window, bathed in the soft glow of the city lights, stood Jaxson Thorne. He had removed his black suit jacket, rolling his crisp white shirt sleeves up to his elbows, revealing intricate, dark tattoos that coiled around his forearms—tattoos that looked distinctly like old tactical combat insignias.
He stepped closer to the bed, waiting until Dr. Vance and the nurses quietly backed out of the room, shutting the heavy oak door behind them.
"You should rest," Jaxson said softly, sitting in the leather armchair beside her bed.
Della looked at him. Now that the adrenaline had faded, she was able to truly observe the man who had turned her terrifying night upside down. He was undeniably striking—sharp jawline, dark hair styled back, and a faint, thin scar running from his left collarbone up toward his jaw.
"Why did you do all this for me?" Della asked softly, her voice barely a whisper. "You don't know me. I'm just a banquet waitress at your hotel."
Jaxson reached out, his long fingers gently picking up her bandaged right hand, careful not to cause her any pain.
"Seven years ago," Jaxson began, his dark eyes fixing onto hers with an intensity that held her breathless. "It was a Tuesday night in November. A torrential downpour over the alley behind the old docks on 4th Street. Do you remember?"
Della blinked. A sudden, sharp memory flickered in her mind. Rain. Cold, relentless rain. The smell of copper and wet trash.
"I was twenty-four," Jaxson continued quietly. "I had just been ambushed by three men sent by my uncle to ensure I never inherited my father's business. I was shot twice in the abdomen, bleeding out behind a dumpster, waiting for my vision to go black."
Della’s eyes widened. "The... the man in the raincoat..."
"A young woman, barely nineteen, walked into that dark alley to throw out trash from a small bakery," Jaxson murmured, a faint, rare smile touching the corner of his lips. "She found me. She didn't run. She didn't call the police, because I begged her not to. Instead, she dragged a two-hundred-pound bleeding man into the back room of the bakery, patched my wounds with clean towels, and stayed with me for four hours until my loyal men found my location."
Della gasped, the fog in her memory completely clearing. "You... you were the soldier..."
"I was a dying man," Jaxson corrected gently. "Before my men carried me out, one of my attackers managed to drag himself into the room, slashing a broken bottle at my face. You blocked it with your bare hand."
Jaxson touched the white bandage on her hand. "That broken glass gave you that crescent scar. I tried to find you after I recovered, but when my men went back to the bakery two weeks later, the building had been burned to the ground by my uncle's rivals. You were gone. I thought you were dead."
Della looked at him in total disbelief. "I... I moved away that same night. The bakery owner panicked and fired me, giving me five hundred dollars to leave town. I spent years moving from city to city, barely surviving..."
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"And now you are here," Jaxson said, his voice turning fiercely protective. "In my hotel. Working for crumbs while corrupt fools like the Vances walk over you."
He leaned in closer, taking her hand in both of his. "Seven years ago, you bled to keep me breathing, Della Marsh. Tonight, my debt to you begins. No one will ever hurt you again. Not while I draw breath."
