The Missing Heir | Billionaire Romance

I can hear rustling. Shouts bouncing off the sterile walls, too many voices, all of them sharp, panicked.

“Head trauma, possible concussion, laceration on the right leg—get me vitals again—he needs an x-ray on that left arm, stat!”

Blinding lights cut through the black behind my eyelids, pulsing like strobes. My head’s pounding—thud-thud-thud—like a war drum beaten with steel fists. Something warm trickles down the side of my face, sticky. Copper tang on my tongue. Blood?

“Sir, can you hear me?”

A face looms over me. Masked. Glasses fogged. Their eyes are intense. Frantic.

“Sir, can you tell us your name? Sir—can you squeeze my hand?”

My fingers twitch. It feels like someone else’s hand, someone else’s body. My skin is cold, clammy. There’s the soft hiss of oxygen, the rhythmic beep of machines clinging to me like leeches.

My name?

I open my mouth. Air hisses out, but nothing comes. A ghost of a sound, caught in my throat.

My name… fuck, it’s right there, right on the edge. I dig for it, clawing through the haze like drowning hands reaching for the surface—but all I get is static.

More voices. Someone cuts away fabric—I feel the shears slicing up my pants leg. Cool air hits raw skin, the sting of antiseptic following fast behind. I jerk, a guttural noise slipping from my lips.

“Easy—he’s coming to.”

“Get ortho on standby. I want scans on his arm before we risk setting anything.”

“Pupils reactive—Jesus, look at that contusion.”

Something tightens on my head, like a vice. My stomach lurches. Am I moving?

The gurney jolts and rolls, metal wheels shrieking against tile. Overhead lights blur into white streaks. The shouting fades into a hum, like water in my ears.

Who the hell am I?

My eyes crack open, and the world spins. There’s a woman running alongside, blonde hair tied back, her gloved hand pressed against my chest. Holding me down? Keeping me tethered?

“Stay with me,” she says, firm, commanding. Her eyes lock onto mine like anchors. “Don’t close your eyes, not yet. You’re not dying on me, okay?”

Dying?

That word slices through the fog.

No. Not yet. Not until I remember who I am. Not until I figure out why my whole body feels like it’s been chewed up and spit out by hell itself.

But there’s a shadow in the corner of my mind, a flicker of something—hands… clenched fists… screams… a flash of fire, then nothing.

My mouth moves again. Still no name.

Just the sound of my heart, hammering.

Who the fuck am I?