The door opened. Catherine turned and saw Alexander stepping inside.
Catherine placed her phone down and smiled as if nothing had cracked inside her. "Is it settled?"
He reached out and patted her head. "I'll handle it." His hand gentlry traced over the small bandage on her forehead. She had injured her head when she fell. For what she went through, this was mild. At least, physically. Mentally... that needs to be handled more delicately.
"Are you hurt anywhere else?" Alexander asked, just to be sure.
"No…" She leaned into his hand without thinking. The simple touch steadied her, reminded her that, for now, at least, she was safe.
"Does Daddy know?" she asked softly.
"Not yet."
"He doesn't have to." Catherine met Alexander's eyes. "Inform William after it's done. Bobby doesn't have to know. Ever."
Alexander understood immediately.
Their father was old and had a bad heart. The truth of how close his precious daughter had come to being destroyed would break him. William, their eldest, the heir apparent, needed to know for the family's safety, for strategy, for containment, and for a final blow.
Their second brother would barely blink; he had long since chosen his own life.
But Bobby…
Robert, their third brother, was a liability. The moment he learned what had happened to Catherine, there would be no pause, no caution. He would load his shotgun and turn the city into a crime scene. They did not need that kind of noise. Not now.
"Just tell Daddy he wasn't a good man," Catherine said quietly. "That I didn't like him. Daddy will understand."
Alexander nodded.
He always did.
"And my clothes?" she asked after a moment. "Our mother's blouse… it isn't damaged, is it?"
She had worn it for comfort, for courage, for the sense that her mother was with her, on the most important day of her life. But... The evening had gone so very wrong.
Alexander curled his hand into his trouser pocket. He remembered the blouse soaked with blood and water, crumpled and ruined. "It's with the dry cleaners," he said evenly.
Catherine closed her eyes, accepting the lie for what it was.
"How long do I have to stay here?" she asked softly. "I want to go home."
There were too many things waiting for her. Too many loose ends she needed to tie with her own hands. And too many thoughts she didn't want echoing back at her from sterile white walls and humming machines.
"Stay until tomorrow," Alexander said, taking the chair beside her bed, claiming it without asking. "Then you're staying at my penthouse. You don't have to go back to that apartment of yours."
"But it's closer to work," Catherine smiled.
"You never listen," he replied dryly.
She exhaled. "Go home, Alexander. I'm fine now. Get a good night's rest. Go to work. You don't need to sit here for me."
It wasn't fair to have him folded into that chair all night, pretending he wasn't exhausted. He should sleep properly. Move freely. Rule the world as usual.
"Hm," Alexander said.
He didn't move.
Catherine sighed. "Then… go sleep in her room," she added lightly, a wicked glint in her eyes. "She looks like someone who sleeps in her office."
His lips curved. "Cathy Bean," he said, adopting a falsely stern tone, "you are not speaking like a youngling."
"I'm not a youngling," she corrected, frowning. "And don't call me Bean. I'm six feet tall. It's unsettling."
He laughed quietly, the sound low and real.
She waited, half-expecting him to say her name. To explain. To mention Roxana.
He didn't.
So... she's precious...
The silence stretched, gentle this time. Safe. Catherine's eyes drifted closed before she realized she was tired. And Alexander stayed right where he was.
But... Not for long.
Sleep refused to come. His mind kept circling, restless and sharp, until he finally rose and walked, aimless at first, through quiet corridors that smelled of disinfectant and old ambition. Somewhere along the way, his feet decided for him.
Roxana's office.
What could he say? His sister was right!
He found Roxana slumped in her chair, glasses discarded on the desk, posture held together by sheer will alone. Even asleep, she looked like she was still bracing for impact.
Idiot, he thought fondly.
Without waking her, he lifted her easily, settling her onto the narrow couch in the corner. The room told its own story. A small cupboard stood half-open with a couple of neatly folded blouses and clean underwear inside. His lips curved despite himself.
She lived here.
He searched for a blanket. Found none.
"Of course," he muttered under his breath. "Of course, you don't sleep like a human."
With a quiet sigh, he slipped off his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders. She shifted slightly, breath evening out, and for a moment, just a moment, her lips curved faintly, as though she recognized the scent.
Alexander leaned down, close enough to feel her warmth.
"Don't listen to your father. Marry me, will you, Roxana?" he murmured, voice barely more than a thought.
A loose strand of hair had fallen across her cheek. He brushed it back gently, knuckles grazing skin, careful not to wake her.
He pressed a soft kiss to her cheek.
Then he straightened, stepped away, and closed the door behind him, quietly, like someone who knew how easily the world could shatter.
*****
By the time Catherine woke, Alexander was already gone.
She lay still for a moment, registering the quiet, then reached for her laptop. The symposium had passed in a blur, and the unease hadn't left her since. She needed to see what had happened to her research.
That was when she noticed it.
On the table was a bouquet of white lilies and forget-me-nots. Beside the laptop lay a long baroque pearl necklace—ivory South Sea pearls, irregular and luminous, unmistakably expensive. She picked it up, and only then did she see her phone, hanging neatly at the end of a fine gold chain.
A small note was looped around it.
Don't forget your phone anymore — Love, Alex.
Catherine smiled despite herself.
Her dear brother knew her too well. She hadn't forgotten her phone, not intentionally, but this solved the problem permanently. Now it would hang against her chest, impossible to misplace.
She turned the pearls over in her hands. Large, baroque, unmistakably South Sea. Only the finest kind. Alexander had always believed expensive meant better. In this case, he wasn't wrong. It would suit her perfectly.
She typed a quick message.
Thank you for your gift.
Then, without hesitation or shame, she slipped the necklace over her head, over the hospital gown, pearls gleaming against thin cotton. It clashed terribly.
She didn't care.
This wasn't fashion. It was a necessity. She would get used to it. She had to.
Settling back onto the bed, she opened her laptop and signed in to her office account.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Nothing.
Her breath stilled as understanding dawned.
She was locked out.
"Ha."
The sound that escaped her was sharp, humorless.
Now they'd gone too far.
Her fingers tapped against the closed laptop—slow, deliberate, dangerous. She lifted the phone resting against her torso, the gold chain cool beneath the pearls, and dialed.
"Is Dr. Vale there yet?" she asked calmly when her assistant answered.
Her gaze hardened.
How dare you lock me out of my own research?