"Are you okay?"
The sterile scent of disinfectant filled the hospital room as Isabella opened her eyes. Standing at the foot of her bed was a man she once loved with all her heart—Leon Soren.
Impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, he looked like he belonged in a boardroom, not at a hospital bedside. His presence made the air feel colder.
"What are you doing here?" she asked hoarsely, her lips dry and cracked. "Checking to see if I'm dead yet?"
Leon's brows furrowed slightly. "Don't be dramatic. You were in an accident. I'm just making sure you're taken care of."
"Taken care of?" she let out a bitter laugh. "And here I thought you might still care."
Leon didn't respond. His silence screamed louder than any words.
She stared at him, eyes filled with quiet fury. "You're not here because you care. You're here because the press caught wind of your ex-wife in the hospital, and you needed to manage the PR disaster. Am I wrong?"
His jaw tightened. "You're overthinking this."
"No," she said softly, eyes never leaving his. "I'm finally thinking clearly."
He pressed the call button for the nurse. "You need to rest. Someone will take care of your transfer soon."
So cold. So distant. As if she were nothing more than a responsibility to be checked off a list.
Isabella turned away from him, blinking back tears.
He didn't stay. He didn't even say goodbye.
And in that moment, she finally understood.
What he gave her wasn't love.
It was pity.