Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 65987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Was she… Was she crying?
For a moment, I hesitated. This was foolish. I should send someone else to check on her. A manager, the medical staff member we kept on duty during busy nights. Anyone but me.
Yet I couldn't make myself turn away. The memory of her kneeling in that mess, blood mixing with spilled whiskey, her voice breaking as she begged not to be fired... it pulled at something inside me I'd believed long dead.
I straightened my shoulders and pushed open the door, my decision made. The soft gasp that escaped her lips as she looked up and saw me standing there sent an unexpected warmth through my chest. Her wide green eyes, still glittering with tears, locked with mine, and for a moment, everything else faded away.
I found Belle sitting alone at a small metal table, her injured hand extended in front of her as she examined a cut on her palm. The fluorescent lighting washed out her complexion, making a few smudges of dried blood on her skin stand out in stark contrast. When the door closed behind me, she jumped to her feet like a startled deer, nearly knocking over her chair in the process. Her eyes widened as she recognized me, a mix of fear and confusion flashing across her features.
"Mr. Luca, I..." she began, her voice trembling slightly. The way she said my name, soft and uncertain, stirred something in my chest that I immediately tried to ignore. "About what happened upstairs, I want to apologize again for—"
I raised my hand, cutting her off mid-sentence. "Let me see," I commanded, though my voice came out softer than I intended. I gestured toward her injured hand.
Belle blinked, clearly taken aback by my request. After a moment's hesitation, she slowly extended her hand, palm up, revealing a jagged cut that ran from the base of her thumb across her palm. It wasn't deep enough to require stitches, but it looked painful, the edges red and inflamed. A fresh drop of blood welled from the cut as I watched.
Without thinking, I closed the distance between us and took her hand in mine. Her skin was soft and cool against my fingers as I gently turned her palm toward the light for a better look.
"It's not that bad," she said quietly, though she winced when I carefully probed the edges of the cut.
"It needs to be cleaned properly," I replied, my thumb absently stroking the uninjured part of her palm. I realized what I was doing and stopped, though I didn't release her hand. "Do you have a first aid kit in here?"
As if on cue, the door opened behind us. A wide-eyed young man in a server's uniform appeared, clutching a white plastic box with a red cross emblazoned on the front. "Mr. Chen said you might need this, sir," he said, his gaze darting nervously between Belle and me.
I nodded, taking the kit with my free hand. "Thank you."
The server lingered for a moment, clearly curious about the unusual scene before him. I turned my head slightly, fixing him with a cold stare that had sent much braver men retreating. He got the message, backing out of the room with a mumbled "Yes, sir," the door swinging shut behind him.
I turned back to Belle, who was watching me with a mix of wariness and something else I couldn't quite identify. Fear for certain, but I thought I saw curiosity as well. I gestured toward the chair she'd been sitting in.
"Sit," I said, setting the first aid kit on the table and opening it. She complied without a word, her movements cautious as if she expected me to suddenly revert to the cold, intimidating boss everyone at The Gray feared.
I pulled up another chair and sat facing her, our knees nearly touching in the small space. Taking her hand again, I placed it gently on my thigh, palm up, and began removing antiseptic wipes and bandages from the kit.
"This might sting," I warned as I tore open an antiseptic packet.
Belle nodded, her teeth catching her lower lip in anticipation. I dabbed at the cut carefully, watching her face rather than my task. She inhaled sharply but made no sound, her green eyes fixed on our joined hands. "You don't have to do this," she said after a moment. "I can take care of it myself."
"I’m sure you can," I replied, continuing to clean away the dried blood from her skin. "But I'm already here." What I didn't say was that the thought of leaving her to tend her wounds alone bothered me in ways I couldn't explain, even to myself.
The room fell silent except for the subtle sound of our breathing and the distant thump of bass from the club above us. I worked carefully, cleaning the cut well before applying antibiotic ointment. I couldn't remember the last time I'd performed such an intimate task for another person.