My gaze landed on his left arm resting on his knee and stayed there—wrapped in heavy white plaster from below the elbow to his hand, suspended in a sling across his chest.
"Rich... ard..." My voice came out wrecked.
"I'm here." Richard leaned forward immediately, using his uninjured right hand to grasp mine with incredible gentleness. "Natalie, how do you feel? Does it still hurt? The doctor's outside, I'll get them right now."
I shook my head, eyes locked on that cast, throat tight. The words stuck in my chest.
He followed my gaze to his arm. "Minor injury. Just a few stitches."
"Liar." I finally found my voice, choked with tears. "I saw... the knife... went in... so much blood..."
He tightened his grip on my hand, thumb stroking my knuckles. "Really, it's nothing. Looks worse than it is. Compared to what you and the baby went through, this is nothing." He paused, voice dropping. "Olivia and those bastards who touched you—I've already pinned down several hiding spots. Soon. I promise, soon there'll be news. None of them will get away."
His tone stayed calm, but I heard the churning fury beneath, the destructive determination.
I knew that for me, for the baby, Richard would never let this go.
The attending physician and obstetrics director knocked and entered for their rounds.
They briefed me on the delivery. "Although premature, the baby's healthy. Low birth weight, though, so he needs observation in the NICU. But his vitals are stable. No serious preterm complications so far. Mrs. Winston's body took a major toll. You'll need extensive rest to recover."
After they left, a more serious-looking doctor came in. He was there to report Richard's arm reexamination results.
"Mr. Winston, yesterday's emergency surgery was successful. We stopped the bleeding and prevented serious infection. However," the doctor adjusted his glasses, voice measured, "the knife caused a very deep laceration. It damaged important tendons and some nerve bundles. We did our best to suture and repair, but nerve regeneration and functional recovery are long and uncertain processes. In the future, this arm very likely won't return to its pre-injury state. You'll probably have permanent functional impairment—significantly reduced grip strength, difficulty with fine motor tasks, abnormal temperature and tactile sensation, and possibly persistent pain or numbness..."
Permanent functional impairment.
Reduced grip strength.
Difficulty with fine motor tasks.
Persistent pain.
Each word hammered my heart. I looked at Richard's expressionless profile, then at that glaring white cast. This hand that once signed billion-dollar contracts, controlled a vast business empire, and not long ago, tenderly touched mypregnant belly... Now, doctors were telling us it might never work like before.
Because of me. Because Richard blocked the knife meant for me.
Overwhelming emotion hit me. Guilt flooded in, nearly drowning me. If he hadn't protected me, Richard never would've been hurt. This proud man who controlled everything had, without hesitation, risked crippling his hand to keep me safe.
"All right, understood." Richard's response was calm and detached. After he dismissed the doctor, he picked up a water cup with his right hand and held it to my lips, indicating I should drink. His face showed nothing else, but I knew what permanent damage to his left hand meant for someone like him.
"Richard, I'm sorry..." I choked, tears streaming. "This is all because of me..."
"Shh." He set down the cup and wiped my tears with his thumb, movements gentle in a way unlike him. "Don't say that. If that knife had hit you, or... hurt the baby," his voice caught, eyes darkening, "that would've been real hell. One hand? Nothing. Even if both hands were ruined, it would be worth it."
He said it so matter-of-factly. So absolutely. Not a shred of hesitation or regret. My tears came harder, but this time, not just from guilt.
The hospital recovery days dragged. My body felt dismantled and rebuilt, every movement accompanied by soreness and weakness. But Richard practically lived at the hospital. With his left hand out of commission, he learned to operate a tablet one-handed, using voice commands for urgent business. He insisted on personally overseeing all my care—from meal plans to rehab schedules, every detail. He even learned, clumsily but with remarkable patience, to help nurses turn me and bathe me with one hand.
He stopped saying "I'll decide for you" or "this is for your own good." Instead, he carefully asked about my feelings and preferences. "Does the incision still hurt? Should we adjust the pain pump?" "Want something with flavor today? The kitchen made bird's nest soup, or you could try a traditional postpartum Chinese meal?" "Want to listen to music? I had them transfer that playlist from your phone."
These tiny changes touched me more than any expensive gift.
A few days later, one afternoon, feeling better, I leaned against the raised hospital bed watching the sunlit garden outside. Richard sat nearby, handling emails one-handed on his tablet. Luca knocked and entered, handing him a thick folder.
Richard took it without looking and placed it directly on my blanket.
"What's this?" I looked at the embossed folder with its gold seal.
