Chapter 3: The General’s Return

I kept my head down, blending in with the truckers and traveling salesmen who filled the lobby. My room smelled like cigarettes and lemon cleaner. I lay awake, listening to the city hum outside. My nerves were shot.

That night, there was quite a commotion at the motel.

Shouts echoed down the hallway, doors slamming open and shut. I sat up in bed, heart racing, as footsteps thundered past my door. Something was wrong.

The manager knocked on doors one by one, waking the guests. He didn’t explain the reason, only anxiously asked if anyone knew medicine.

He sounded frantic. I could hear the panic in every word.

Half-awake, I nodded.

I barely had time to throw on my coat before he grabbed my arm, relief flooding his face.

The manager was overjoyed:

“Great! Then that man is saved!”

He pressed a fifty-dollar bill into my hand, and without letting me refuse, pushed me into a bright guest room.

“Please, miss, do your best. Don’t let this war hero die in my motel!”

He all but shoved me through the door, wringing his hands. The fifty-dollar bill crumpled in my fist, a reminder of how desperate he was. No pressure, right?

A soldier led me into the room. Lavender. Meant to calm nerves. Didn’t work. The scent of lavender was almost overpowering, meant to soothe nerves. But nothing could calm the shock that ran through me when I saw who was lying there.

That face, so high-spirited at the Rivera house during the day, was now pale as paper. The white shirt at his chest was soaked with dark red, a hideous sword wound split open.

Blood seeped through the bandages, staining the sheets. His chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths. I felt my stomach twist in fear.

I was so stunned, I forgot to be cautious. Forgot to disguise my voice.

“How… how did he end up like this?”

The words slipped out before I could stop them, my concern plain as day.

The soldier replied:

“A few days ago, the general was badly wounded on the battlefield. He was supposed to be resting, but suddenly received a secret letter. Regardless of his injury, he rushed back day and night, holding on for a long time, but now he’s at the end of his strength.”

He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

I asked sharply, “Why not send him to the hospital? They have the best medicine and the most skilled doctors!”

My voice cracked with frustration. It seemed insane to risk his life like this.

The soldier looked troubled:

“Too many eyes and ears. If word gets out that the general is hurt, the enemy at the border, already restless, might attack at any time.”

He glanced nervously at the window, like he expected spies behind the curtains. The weight of it all was written on his face.

I almost laughed in anger.

It was so like Ethan—always putting duty before everything, even his own life. The irony stung.

Back then he married me to cover the military’s budget shortfall.

Our wedding was less about love, more about ledgers. The kind of thing that made sense on Wall Street, but left no room for affection.

Later, he didn’t divorce me to please his father, sticking to that saying—

‘Blackwell men are always loyal to the end.’

Stupid, I know. That phrase had haunted our marriage, a badge of honor and a curse. It was the reason I’d stayed as long as I had, hoping for something more.

Now, a loveless dead wife has lost her father, and he’s willing to risk so much, rushing back a thousand miles?

It was almost too much. I felt a bitter laugh bubble up, but I swallowed it.

After cutting away the shirt stuck to his skin, my heart tightened sharply.

The fabric peeled away with a sickening sound, revealing the full extent of his injuries. My hands shook as I worked, but I forced myself to stay steady.

On his left shoulder was a dent the size of a quarter, caused by a bullet. On his right rib, three parallel scars from a knife. As for his back, there were countless old scars.

He’d survived so much. Each scar told a story—battles won, enemies vanquished, close calls survived. I traced them with my eyes, feeling the weight of each one.