His Merciless Redemption novel Chapter 144

Chapter 144

Dominic’s POV

When Alessia opened her eyes, I felt relief.

When she didn’t speak, I felt dread.

She was propped slightly up in the hospital bed, pale against white sheets, an IV in her arm, oxygen monitor clipped to her finger. Machines hummed softly around her.

Alive.

And yet, there was no light in her eyes.

I stepped into the room quietly after the nurse told me she was awake.

Her parents had stepped out for coffee. Isabella had gone home with Salvatore and Vittoria after Alessia had woken up, both to inform my mother and make sure Mateo was doing fine.

So it was just us now.

“Alessia,” I said gently.

Her gaze shifted towards me slowly. But it was so blank that for a second, I didn’t recognize her.

“How are you feeling?” I asked her.

She blinked once. “Tired.” Her voice was hoarse. Fragile.

I moved closer to the bed. “Why?” I asked quietly.

She frowned slightly. “Why what?”

“Why did you think it was okay to leave us like that?” My voice cracked despite my effort to control it. “To try and end your life?”

Something in her face broke, her lips trembling as tears welled in her eyes. “You should’ve let me,” she whispered.

The words hit like a punch.

“Don’t,” I said sharply.

“There’s nothing left,” she cried suddenly, tears spilling over. “There’s nothing for me here anymore. It’s empty. Everything is empty.”

Her body started shaking. I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her carefully into my arms. She collapsed against my chest.

“My baby is gone,” she sobbed. “My baby is gone and it’s my fault and I can’t- I can’t breathe without thinking about it.”

I wrapped my arms around her tighter. “It’s not your fault,” I murmured.

“It is,” she cried. “I fell. I couldn’t even protect it. I couldn’t even do that one thing right.”

Her grief was raw. Unfiltered. Animal.

“I should’ve died too,” she whispered against my shirt.

“Don’t say that,” I said firmly, lifting her face slightly so she would look at me. “Don’t ever say that.”

“Why?” she demanded weakly. “What’s left for me?”

“You have people who love you,” I said, perhaps more urgently than I intended. “Your parents. Me. My family.”

She looked at me then, really looked at me. And I saw something there that made my stomach twist- Dependence.

“You’re here,” she said softly.

“Yes,” I replied.

“You didn’t leave.”

I swallowed. “No.”

She clung to me like I was the only solid thing in the world. And for a moment, I let her. Because she needed someone to hold her together.

And also because I needed to believe I wasn’t responsible for breaking her.

“I hate seeing you like this,” I said quietly. “I need you to get better.”

She didn’t respond.

“You need help,” I continued carefully. “A psychologist. Someone who knows how to guide you through this.”

Her body tensed instantly at my words.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No,” she repeated, pulling back slightly. “I don’t want to talk to strangers.”

“It’s not about wanting,” I said softly but firmly. “It’s about healing.”

“I don’t want medication,” she said quickly, almost panicked.

“Maybe you won’t need it. But you need someone trained to help you through this.”

She shook her head weakly. “No.”

I exhaled slowly.

Then I did something that made something sharp twist inside me.

“Do it for me,” I said quietly.

She stilled, her tear-filled eyes searched mine. “For you?” she whispered softly.

“Yes.”

“If I talk to a shrink, you’ll stay?” she asked.

The meaning behind the question felt loaded. Dangerously loaded. I hesitated for a fraction of a second. And

I knew that hesitation meant something.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said finally.

Her fingers tightened around mine. “Okay. I’ll do it,” she whispered.

And just like that, she agreed.

But the victory tasted wrong. As she lay back down, exhausted, I felt it settle heavy in my chest.

I had just used her feelings for me to influence her decision.

Necessary? Yes.

Manipulative? Also yes.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, a quiet voice whispered-Would Isabella understand this? Or would she see it as another betrayal?

I pushed the thought away.

This wasn’t about me. Or her. This was about keeping Alessia alive.

So, the next morning, the hospital psychologist arrived.

Dr. Ferraro, a man in his mid-forties with calm eyes and a neutral voice.

He requested to see Alessia alone first while I waited outside with her parents. Her mother wrung her hands continuously. Her father stared straight ahead. But no one spoke for the next forty minutes.

After forty long minutes, the door finally opened.

Dr. Ferraro stepped out, his expression composed but grave.

“I need to speak with you,” he said, looking directly at me. “And her parents.”

A chill ran down my spine at his tone.

We stepped a few feet away from the door.

“How is she?” her mother asked anxiously.

“She is in acute psychological distress,” he said carefully. “Severe depressive symptoms, compounded by traumatic loss.”

“Is she suicidal?” her father asked bluntly.

The doctor didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

The word dropped like a stone.

“She expresses persistent feelings of hopelessness and worthlessness,” he continued. “She believes her life has no meaning without the child.”

My chest tightened painfully.

“She is also emotionally fixated,” he added carefully.

“On what?” I asked.

The doctor looked at me. “On you.”

Silence.

“She associates her stability with your presence,” he continued. “She perceives you as her primary emotional anchor.”

My pulse started pounding in my ears.

“That dependency is not healthy,” he said calmly. “But right now, removing that perceived support abruptly could escalate her condition.”

Her mother looked confused. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” the doctor said gently, “that we need to be extremely careful about any emotional disruptions in her environment.”

His eyes didn’t leave mine. I understood what he was implying. And I didn’t like it.

“We will begin intensive therapy immediately,” he continued. “Possibly medication to stabilize mood. But she will require consistent reassurance. Routine. Emotional security.”

Emotional security. The word felt heavier than it should have.

“And if she doesn’t improve?” her father asked.

patient psychiatric care.”

Her mother gasped softly.

I felt something cold slide down my spine. Inpatient. Institutionalized. Fragile. Broken.

All because of choices. Mine.

Dr. Ferraro didn’t leave after delivering his assessment.

“There’s something else,” he said quietly.

Alessia’s parents had stepped aside to speak with a nurse. We stood near the window overlooking the parking lot.

“She is anchored to you emotionally,” he continued. “Right now, your presence stabilizes her. But stability requires reinforcement.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means,” he said calmly, “you need to remind her of continuity. Of positive shared history. Of life beyond this loss.”

I frowned slightly.

“Talk to her,” he said. “About the past. Good memories. Moments where she felt alive, connected, secure.”

I went still.

“That might strengthen her emotional dependence,” I pointed out.

“It might,” he admitted. “But at this stage, we’re prioritizing immediate safety over long-term emotional dynamics. She needs reasons to stay.”

Stay.

The word landed heavily.

“She responds to you,” he continued. “Use that carefully.”

Carefully.

It didn’t feel careful. It felt like walking across thin ice knowing there were fractures beneath the surface.

But if this was what it took to prevent another balcony incident, another bottle-

I nodded.

“I’ll talk to her.”