Ignoring the protests of the hospital staff, he refused to lay her on a stretcher, instead making a beeline for the emergency operating room.
Once inside, he placed her gently on the table, his hands lingering on her still form as he silently prayed for her recovery. The doctors and nurses sprang into action, their movements swift and efficient as they prepared for surgery. Tristan watched anxiously yet patiently, his heart in his throat as he waited for news of her condition.
In that moment, as he stood vigil by her side, Tristan couldn't help but feel a sense of connection to this stranger lying before him. Despite the uncertainty of the situation, he was determined to see her through this ordeal, whatever it took. And as he looked at her innocent face, now betraying the trauma she had endured, he knew that their fates were inexplicably intertwined.
After three tense hours, the doors to the operating room finally swung open, and Tristan bolted toward the doctors, his heart pounding with worry. "Doctor, how is she?" he demanded, his voice betraying a hint of urgency.
The doctor's expression softened as he met Tristan's eyes. "She's out of danger," he said, the weight lifting off Tristan's shoulders in an instant. "We've stabilized her condition, and she can be transferred to the general ward."
Tristan nodded, gratitude flooding through him as he swiftly arranged for a private suite for her recovery. As he sat vigil by her bedside, his mind raced with questions, his fingers already dialing his assistant's number.
"Alex," Tristan's voice was clipped, urgent. "I need you to find out everything you can about what happened."
On the other end of the line, Alex's response was swift and efficient, his reassurances grounding Tristan in the midst of chaos.
As the hours passed, Tristan watched over Summer, his concern evident in the furrow of his brow and the gentle touch of his hand on hers. When she finally stirred and opened her eyes, confusion flickered across her features.
Tristan's smile was warm and genuine as he met her gaze, a flicker of relief in his eyes. "You're safe now," he assured her softly, his tone carrying a hint of vulnerability beneath the surface.
Summer's response was a mixture of disbelief and gratitude, her eyes searching his face for reassurance. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Their conversation was filled with quiet understanding and unspoken emotions, each word carrying the weight of their shared experience and the bond that was forming between them. And in that moment, as Summer looked into Tristan's eyes, she felt a strange sense of comfort, a feeling she couldn't quite explain. For in his presence, she found solace, a refuge from the chaos of her world, unaware that the man she trusted was none other than her rival, Tristan Stark, concealed behind a mask of anonymity—a secrecy born of necessity, shielding him from those who sought to exploit his power and influence for their own gain.
After a few minutes, when Summer was fully awake and fully adjusted to her surrounding, Tristan leaned forward, his concern etched into every line of his face. "How are you feeling?" he asked softly, his eyes searching hers for any sign of discomfort.
Summer, now going by the alias Sam, offered him a small, strained smile. "I'm fine," she replied, her tone curt. "Just a little sore."
Tristan nodded, respecting her need for privacy even as his curiosity burned within him. "And your name?" he pressed gently, hoping to glean some information about the mysterious woman in his care.
Sam hesitated for a moment before answering, her guard still firmly in place. "You can call me Sam," she said finally, her voice guarded.
Tristan noted her reluctance with a small nod, filing away the information for later. Before he could ask any further questions, Sam's attention was diverted by a sudden need to make a call.
"Could I borrow your phone?" she asked, her tone polite but firm.
Tristan frowned, realizing his phone was dead. "I'm sorry, it's out of battery," he admitted reluctantly.
Sam's expression hardened slightly, but she quickly masked it with a neutral facade. "No matter," she said dismissively, turning to the nurse for assistance.
Sam took the nurse's phone and dialed a number with practiced ease, her fingers moving swiftly over the keypad. After a few rings, a familiar voice answered on the other end.
"Hey, it's me," Sam said, her tone firm but controlled. "I need you to come to the city hospital. I've been shot."
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, followed by a flurry of questions and concern. Sam listened quietly, her expression unreadable as she absorbed the barrage of inquiries.
"Don't worry about that," she interrupted, her voice cutting through the chaos. "Just bring me a new phone. Mine got destroyed."
Tristan watched in silent fascination as Sam navigated the conversation with ease, her tone unwavering despite the gravity of the situation. There was a sense of authority in her voice, a commanding presence that demanded attention and respect.
After she hung up, Tristan couldn't help but feel a surge of curiosity about the person on the other end of the line. "Who was that?" he asked, unable to contain his interest.
Sam hesitated for a moment, her guard momentarily slipping. "Just a friend," she replied evasively, her tone guarded.
Tristan nodded in understanding, sensing that there was more to the story than Sam was willing to reveal. He decided not to press further, respecting her need for privacy in the midst of their shared ordeal.
As they settled into a companionable silence, Tristan couldn't shake the feeling of admiration for the woman lying before him. Despite the uncertainty of their circumstances, there was a strength and resilience in Sam that he found both captivating and inspiring. And as he watched over her, a sense of protectiveness washed over him, driving him to ensure her safety and well-being at any cost.
The quiet atmosphere of the ward shattered as Max burst in, his expression a mix of panic and disbelief.
Max's eyes widened in shock as they landed on Tristan, and for a moment, he seemed at a loss for words. "What are you doing here, Trish--?"