Please Come Back, My Love Chapter 202

Elena: POV

"Room 3," he said quietly. "Down the hall, second door on the left. Take all the time you need."

I didn't remember walking. Didn't remember handing Lila off to Ethan or telling him to keep her away, to not let her see, to—

Then I was standing in the doorway of Room 3, and nothing else mattered.

Julian lay on a gurney in the center of the room, a white sheet pulled up to his chest. His skin was gray, waxy, the vibrant life that had always burned in him extinguished like someone had flipped a switch.

There was blood—God, so much blood—soaking through the sheet, pooling on the floor beneath the gurney in dark, spreading puddles.

But it was his face that broke me.

He looked peaceful. That's what people always said about the dead, wasn't it? He looks peaceful. Like death was some kind of blessing, some merciful release from the pain of living.

Fuck that.

Julian Sterling didn't look peaceful. He looked gone. Empty. Like everything that had made him him—the arrogance, the cruelty, the desperate, aching vulnerability he'd tried so hard to hide—had been scooped out, leaving nothing but a shell.

I don't remember crossing the room. Don't remember my legs giving out or my knees hitting the blood-slicked floor. But suddenly I was there, my hands on his chest, feeling for a heartbeat that would never come.

"No," I whispered. Then louder: "No."

His skin was still warm. That's what killed me—he was still warm, like he'd just fallen asleep, like any second he'd open those storm-gray eyes and smirk at me and say something cruel and cutting that would make me want to slap him.

But he didn't move. Didn't breathe. Didn't do anything but lie there like a broken doll while I fell apart on top of him.

"You *bastard,*" I choked out, my hands fisting in the blood-soaked sheet. "You fucking *bastard.* You don't get to do this. You don't get to—to throw yourself in front of a knife and then just *die* on me. That's not—you can't—"

The words dissolved into sobs so violent they shook my entire body. I collapsed forward, pressing my face against his chest, breathing in the scent of him beneath the copper tang of blood—pipe tobacco and peppermint and something uniquely Julian that I'd never been able to name.

"You bullied me for three years," I said into his chest, my voice muffled and broken. "You made my life hell. You chose her over me every single time. You made me feel like I was *nothing*, like I didn't matter, like I was just—just some *thing* you could use and discard whenever you got bored. And now you're just going to *leave?* Just like that? Without giving me a chance to—to—"

To what? Yell at him? Forgive him? Make him grovel and apologize for every cruel word, every cold dismissal, every time he'd made me feel like loving him was the stupidest thing I'd ever done?

"It's not fair," I whispered. "You owe me, Julian Sterling. You owe me *so much.* I should have—God, I was so *stupid.* When we divorced, I should have taken everything. Should have demanded the penthouse and the beach house and that ridiculous estate in the Hamptons. Should have asked for millions—no, *billions*—in compensation for what you put me through."

I was babbling now, the words spilling out in a desperate, broken stream. "And Lila—you owe her child support. Four years' worth. With interest. And college tuition. And—and a trust fund. And—"

My voice cracked. "You have to wake up so you can pay me back. You have to wake up so I can make you *suffer* for every single thing you did to me. You have to wake up because Lila—she called you *Daddy,* Julian. She wants to give you a hug. She thinks her hug will make you less sad, and you—you can't just—"

I couldn't finish. Couldn't force the words past the grief that was choking me.

"Please," I whispered against his chest. "Please wake up. Please don't leave us. Don't leave *me.* I can't—I can't do this without you. I know I said I could, I know I told you I didn't need you, but I was *lying,* okay? I was lying because I was scared and hurt and I didn't want you to know that you still had the power to destroy me. But you do. You *do,* and if you die now, if you leave me here alone, I won't survive it. I won't—"

The sobs came harder, shaking my entire body. I pressed my face harder against his chest, my hands clutching at him like I could somehow hold him to this world through sheer force of will.

"I love you," I choked out. "God help me, I love you. I've always loved you. Even when I hated you, even when I wanted to hurt you as much as you'd hurt me, I *loved* you. And I never got to tell you. Never got to—"

I don't know how long I stayed like that. Minutes? Hours? Time had lost all meaning. There was only the cold tile beneath my knees, the warmth slowly leeching from Julian's body, and the terrible, suffocating weight of everything I'd never said.

"You can't go," I whispered, my voice raw. "Not yet. Not when we finally—not when Lila needs you. Not when I—"

*Need you.*

The admission felt like swallowing glass.

"Please," I said again. "Please, Julian. Please wake up. Please—"

Something moved beneath my hand.

I froze, my breath catching in my throat. For a moment, I thought I'd imagined it—grief playing tricks on my exhausted mind. But then I felt it again: the slightest twitch of fingers against my palm.

"Julian?" My voice came out strangled, desperate. I lifted my head, staring at his face. Still gray. Still slack. Still—

His hand moved again. Just a fraction of an inch, fingers curling slightly like he was trying to grab onto something.

Like he was trying to grab onto *me.*

"*HELP!*" The scream tore out of me, raw and primal. "*SOMEBODY HELP! HE'S—HE MOVED! HIS HAND MOVED!*"

I lunged for the door, yanking it open so hard it slammed against the wall. "*DR. MORRISON!* GET IN HERE *NOW!*"

Footsteps thundered down the hallway. Dr. Morrison appeared first, followed by a swarm of nurses and another doctor I didn't recognize.

"He moved," I gasped, grabbing Dr. Morrison's arm. "His hand—I felt it—he moved.”