bound; governed by fate or extremely likely to occur.
"Face it, Marco. You and I are bound to one another. Even after all this time, even despite the consequences of our love, you can't keep yourself away from me-and neither can I."
M A R C O / R O M E S S A Order in The Court a/n: I accidentally published this chapter yesterday, but since I have unpublished and re-written the plot of it. If you read the original version that was accidentally published, I recommend re-reading this version so that you won't be confused next update! :)
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L A N A | D E L | R E Y - Mariner's Apartment Complex "They mistook my kindness for weakness; I fucked up, I know that, but Jesus— Can't a girl just do the best she can?"
—
Marco bounced a small plastic ball against the wall and caught it in his hands; one of his favorite activities to pass the time from when he was child. It was his fifth day of visiting Romessa at the hospital.
He'd grown familiar to Romessa's sterile room—he would visit the hospital every day, and he'd remain all day long. He generally waited for Romessa to drift back into consciousness, and only managed to exchange a few words with her when she was awake. Her miscarriage—which had caused her to hemorrhage—had been lethal. Recovering would take weeks to months, and she'd experience the physical consequences of the incident for the rest of her life. The doctor explained to Marco and Romessa's parents that she had polycystic ovary syndrome: a likely result of all the duress and trauma she'd been under ever since she graduated high school. The miscarriage had, to a certain degree, caused the insides of her ovaries to burst—hence the indescribable pain she was in.
Marco continued to bounce the ball against the wall. Bounce, catch. Bounce, catch. He turned to face Romessa, who was still sleeping softly. She'd been put under heavy sedatives ever since undergoing a necessary procedure the day after she got into the hospital: two blood transfusions to make up for the blood she'd lost, and three blood vessels in her uterus cauterized to prevent infection and further bleeding. If Romessa hadn't gotten to the hospital in time, she would've bled to death in Marco's arms. To say he was devastated would be an understatement. He cried for hours that day—and though Marco Reus certainly wasn't a crier, this was the tragedy he'd ever experienced. He couldn't get the image of Romessa's pain-stricken face out of his head as he held her in his arms, nor could he forget how the scene of her miscarriage had looked more like that of a murder.
Marco stopped bouncing the ball, then went to sit by Romessa's side. One thing was clearer now than ever—she was his priority. He couldn't bring himself to care about going or being anywhere she wasn't. He couldn't sleep at night without her by his side, and he knew people in Germany would chew her up and spit her out when they returned. It would have to be one or the other—his country, or Romessa. It was impractical for her to stay there now that she was so weak. The media had gone insane over the course of the past few days, with every outlet making a field day out of Romessa's miscarriage, praying that it would somehow tear her and Marco apart. Marco was getting sick of living under a spotlight—he'd been sick of it for years.
