The Don's Regret: Losing His Life Saver

Arminda POV "I panicked," Coleton breathed, the admission ragged. It was the first time I had ever heard him use that word. He stood at the foot of my hospital bed, his hands gripping the metal railing so tightly his knuckles turned the color of bone. "The explosion... it triggered the memory of the car bomb. I just grabbed the nearest person and ran. It wasn't a choice, Arminda. It was a reflex." "The nearest person," I repeated, my voice flat as I gestured to the heavy plaster cast encasing my leg. "I was on the floor, Coleton. Looking right at you. Charly was by the door." "I didn't see you." He looked me dead in the eyes and said it. The lie hung in the sterile air between us, heavy and suffocating. "I thought you were behind me," he added, doubling down. I looked away, staring at the blank, white wall. It was easier than looking at the ghost of the man I thought I knew. "It doesn't matter, Coleton. It clarifies things." "It clarifies nothing!" he snapped, the guilt twisting into anger. "You're not going to Europe. Esther told me about the money. You think you can just buy your way out of this family?" "Esther fired me," I said. "She paid me to leave." "I am the Don!" His voice rose, cracking with a strange, frantic desperation. "Esther doesn't make personnel decisions. I do. And you are not dismissed." Before I could answer, his phone buzzed against the bedside table. He snatched it up, and his face softened instantly—a transformation that cut deeper than the shrapnel. "Charly? Yeah, I'm here. What? You can't breathe?" He looked at me, then back at the device. "I'm coming. Stay on the line." He hung up, already turning away. "She's having a panic attack about the fire. She needs me." "I have a broken bone," I said quietly. "You're a nurse," he threw over his shoulder, his hand on the doorknob. "You know how to heal. She doesn't." He walked out. And with him went the last shred of the girl who had loved him. * Three days of silence later, he sent a car for me. Not to take me to the airport, but to the estate. "Mandatory attendance," Isaias said as he helped me maneuver into the backseat of the limousine. His tone was professional, but he avoided my gaze. "Charity Auction for the Children's Hospital. It washes the money. Boss says you have to be there to show the family is united after the gallery attack." I sat in the back, my cast propped up awkwardly on the leather. The front passenger door opened, and Charly slid in. She wore a dress that likely cost more than my entire medical school tuition. She adjusted the rearview mirror, not to check traffic, but to admire her own lipstick, effectively blocking my view of the road. "Cole implies we're a trio," Charly laughed, casting a glance at Coleton as he took the wheel. "But we all know who sits in the front." Coleton didn't defend me. He just drove. The auction was a blur of fake smiles, clinking crystal, and the blinding flash of diamond jewelry. I sat at the Barron table in a wheelchair, feeling invisible in my black dress, like a shadow amidst their glitter. Coleton was manic, bidding on everything, displaying his wealth with a feverish intensity to prove the Barrons weren't weakened by the bombing. He bought Charly a diamond necklace for two hundred thousand dollars. He draped it around her neck while the room applauded. "To the most beautiful survivor," he toasted. Then, the auctioneer unveiled the next item. It was a painting. *Lavender Fields at Dusk*. My breath hitched in my throat. It was an oil painting of a field in Provence, rendered in deep purples and soft golds. During the long, agonizing nights when Coleton couldn't sleep from his chronic pain, I used to read to him about Provence. I told him it was my dream to open a small clinic there, surrounded by lavender. I told him the scent was the only thing that truly calmed my soul. Coleton looked at the painting. He looked at me. For a heartbeat, time suspended. I thought he remembered. "Fifty thousand," Coleton called out. "Sold!" My heart fluttered, a traitorous bird in my chest. A peace offering? An apology? The attendants brought the painting to our table. Coleton took it. He turned toward me, holding the frame. "Arminda," he started. I reached out a hand, my throat tight, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. "Charly loves purple," he said, turning slightly and handing the painting to the woman beside him. "It matches your eyes, babe. A bonus for the necklace." Charly squealed, clapping her hands. "Oh, Cole! It's boring, but the frame is antique. I love it." My hand was still reached out. I slowly curled my fingers into a fist and lowered it to my lap. The humiliation was a physical blow, heavier than the water in the pool, hotter than the fire in the gallery. It was a precise, surgical strike to the heart. A waiter glided by with champagne. Coleton grabbed a glass and held it out to me. "Drink up, Arminda," he said, his eyes challenging me, daring me to make a scene. "Celebrate with us." I looked at the bubbling glass. I looked at the painting in Charly's ungrateful hands. "No," I said. "Excuse me?" Coleton's smile dropped, his brow furrowing. "I said no." I reached down and unlocked the brakes on my wheelchair with a sharp *click*. "I don't drink with strangers." I wheeled myself away from the table, leaving him standing there with the glass in his hand, looking confused for the first time all night.