Chapter 3 - A Name to the Bruises
"You shouldn't be standing," Damen said, his voice low, smooth, and echoing softly against the wood paneling. "The physician noted your hemoglobin levels were remarkably low."
"Who gave you the right to look at my medical charts?" Hannah demanded, trying to find her footing, though her legs still felt like water beneath her sweater.
Damen didn't flinch at her defensive tone. He slowly walked over to the armchair beside her bed and sat down, crossing one leg over his knee, watching her with a calm, unblinking focus.
"I bought the building that houses this hospital four years ago, Miss Brooks," Damen said simply. "I don't need permission to ensure the people under my roof are receiving proper care."
Hannah stared at him in disbelief. "You own the hospital?"
"I own many things in Chicago," Damen replied. "Including the shipping company that supplies your West Haven clinic with its emergency antibiotics."
Hannah swallowed hard. West Haven Community Clinic had received an anonymous donation of high-grade medical supplies three months ago—supplies that had saved the lives of dozens of uninsured neighborhood children.
"You're... the donor?" she whispered.
"That is irrelevant," Damen said, brushing a speck of dust from his sleeve. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gray eyes piercing straight through her defenses. "What is relevant is the man who did that to your wrist."
Hannah took a step back, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs. "I told your driver, it was a mistake. I'm clumsy."
"Clumsy people bruise their elbows and knees, Hannah," Damen said softly, using her first name for the first time. The sound of her name on his lips felt intimacy wrapped in iron. "They do not get thumb-shaped contusions on the underside of their left forearm while trying to protect their face."
Tears pricked the corners of Hannah's eyes, but she forced them back with a fierce, stubborn pride. "You don't know anything about my life, Mr. Moretti. You picked me up off the street. That doesn't give you ownership over my personal troubles."
"No," Damen agreed calmly. "It does not. But four years ago, a woman named Dr. Julian Vance opened a private clinic three blocks from your apartment. He is a prominent surgeon at Northwestern Memorial. He is also your ex-fiancé, isn't he?"
Hannah felt the blood drain entirely from her face. "How... how do you know that?"
Damen stood up slowly, stepping toward her until he was standing just two feet away. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and emanated an aura of absolute, lethal protection.
"Because three hours ago, my men checked Dr. Vance's public records," Damen said quietly. "And one hour ago, we discovered he has two previous restraining orders filed against him by former surgical residents—both sealed by powerful friends in the city prosecutor's office."
Hannah dropped her gaze to the floor, her shoulders trembling as the shameful truth she had hidden for months was laid bare in front of a complete stranger.
Julian had been charming at first. Then possessive. Then violent. When she tried to break off the engagement three weeks ago, he had cornered her in the clinic's breakroom, grabbing her wrists with enough force to burst the blood vessels beneath her skin, threatening to destroy her nursing license if she ever spoke a word to anyone.
"He... he has connections," Hannah choked out, a single tear slipping down her cheek. "He told me no court in Chicago would ever believe a nurse over a chief surgeon."
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Damen reached out. His large, warm hand gently rested beneath her chin, tilting her face upward until her eyes met his dark gray gaze.
"He lied to you, Hannah," Damen said softly, his voice carrying the terrifying weight of a man who could bend cities to his will. "In this city, there is no doctor, no judge, and no politician powerful enough to protect him from me."
