I was about to say something—something light, something that would keep the moment from sinking too deep—when it hit me.
At first it was just pressure. A dull tightening behind my eyes, like a band being pulled too tight around my skull. I frowned slightly, lifting a hand toward my temple.
Then the pain exploded.
It felt as if someone had taken a hammer to the inside of my head and started striking without mercy. Each pulse of my heartbeat sent another shock through me, sharp and blinding. My vision fractured instantly, the room stretching and bending at the edges.
I sucked in a breath, but even that hurt.
"Wait—" I murmured, my voice coming out wrong, thin and distant. "My head—"
Alexander was at my side in an instant. "Hey. Hey, look at me. What's wrong?"
The pain spiked harder, so sudden and violent it stole the rest of my words. White light burst behind my eyes. The beeping of the monitor grew louder, faster, like it was panicking with me.
"I can't—" I tried to say, but my tongue felt heavy, uncooperative.
I heard him say my name, sharp now. Alarmed.
My hands started to shake. The room tilted violently to one side, then the other. It felt like I was falling inward, sinking through the bed, through myself.
"Doctor!" Alexander shouted, his voice breaking through the haze. "I need a doctor in here—now!"
I barely felt him catch my shoulders as my body went slack. The pain was unbearable, roaring, consuming everything until there was nothing else left to hold onto.
Then even that disappeared.
Darkness swallowed me whole.
Voices pulled me back before light did.
Muffled at first. Urgent. Overlapping.
"She's losing consciousness again—" "Blood pressure's dropping—" "When did this start?"
I drifted somewhere between waking and falling, aware only in fragments. Hands on my arm. Cold against my skin. The faint sting of something being adjusted at my IV.
"She has a concussion," a calm voice said—professional, controlled. "Post-traumatic. This isn't unexpected, but it is serious."
I felt someone's hand gripping mine. Too tight. Like he was afraid to let go.
"Is she going to be okay?" Alexander asked.
That question—so bare, so unguarded—cut through the fog more than anything else.
"She needs rest," the doctor replied. "No stress. No stimulation. We'll run another scan to be safe."
I tried to open my eyes, to tell him I was still there, but my body refused to cooperate. Sleep dragged at me again, heavy and unavoidable.
The last thing I felt before slipping under was his thumb brushing over my knuckles—slow, grounding—like he was anchoring himself to the simple fact that I was still breathing.
And then the pain faded.
And I was gone again.
When I came back to myself, it wasn't all at once.
Consciousness returned in thin layers—sounds first, then weight, then thought. The steady beep of a monitor. The faint antiseptic smell. A chair creaking softly nearby.
And then… clarity.
Too much clarity.
My head still throbbed, yes, but beneath the pain, my mind was sharp. Awake. Calculating.
I didn't open my eyes right away.
I listened.
Alexander was there. I could feel it before I heard him—the quiet presence, the way the air felt heavier on that side of the bed. He shifted in the chair, tired, restless. He hadn't left.
Something inside me stirred. Not guilt. Not tenderness.
Opportunity.
A slow, dangerous thought crept in, smooth as silk.
What if I used this?
The doctors already thought my head injury was serious. Another fainting spell. A concussion. Confusion would be expected. Memory loss wouldn't be questioned—not right away.
I could pretend.
I could wake up and look at him like he was a stranger. Or worse—like he was the only thing that felt familiar. I could let him fill in the gaps, guide me, protect me. Let him believe I was fragile, dependent.
Safe.
Living with him wouldn't be difficult then. It would be natural. Necessary, even. He'd insist on it himself—I could already imagine the look in his eyes, the worry tightening his jaw.
It would be an easy ticket into his world.
His home.
His routines.
His secrets.
I would fake the dizziness, the headaches, the slow recovery. Play the role perfectly—confused but trusting, broken but warm. Let him lower his guard completely.
All I needed was time.
Time to get to the Hotel family information. Time to uncover everything tied to Operation Quinn. Time to finish this once and for all.
And when I had what I needed?
I would disappear.
Or end it—cleanly.
The thought settled in my chest, cold and steady. I hated how calm it made me. How right it felt.
I kept my eyes closed a second longer, practicing shallow breaths, letting my face soften into something vulnerable.
Then, slowly, I let my lashes flutter.
And stepped fully into the lie.
Light pressed against my eyelids—too bright, too clean. I let out a small sound, not quite a groan, more like a confused breath. The kind people make when they wake up somewhere unfamiliar and don't want to admit it yet.
The chair beside the bed scraped softly.
"Hey—hey, don't move." His voice was lower than I remembered. Tired. Careful. "You're in the hospital."
I opened my eyes properly this time.
White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. A drip stand to my left. My head throbbed on cue—no acting needed there—and I winced, bringing a hand up slowly like it took effort.
I looked at him.
Really looked.
Alexander was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, concern written so plainly on his face it almost startled me. His hair was a mess, jacket still on, dark circles under his eyes like he hadn't slept at all.
I frowned. Just a little. Enough to be noticed.
"…Where am I?" I asked. My voice came out hoarse, thin. Real enough that it surprised even me.
His shoulders dropped in relief. "You're awake. Thank God." He stood, then seemed to think better of it and stayed where he was. "You were hit by a car. Not badly—but you hit your head. You scared the hell out of me."
I swallowed, eyes flicking around the room again, slower now. As if I were searching for something I couldn't name.
"And you are…?" I asked quietly.
The silence that followed was sharp.
He blinked once. Then again. "I—" He stopped himself, exhaled. "My name's Alexander. I was driving. I brought you here. We… know each other."
I watched his face carefully. The way worry shifted into something more fragile. Fear—not for me, but of what this might mean.
"I'm sorry," I said, pressing my fingers to my temple as if trying to pull a thought back into place. "I don't… I don't remember."
It wasn't dramatic. That was the key. No panic. No tears. Just confusion, soft and believable.
A doctor chose that moment to walk in, clipboard in hand. Perfect timing.
They asked me questions—my name, the date, where I was. I answered some correctly, hesitated on others. I let my gaze drift when it should, let my head ache visibly, let exhaustion claim me halfway through a sentence.
The doctor nodded slowly. "You've got a concussion. Memory gaps can happen, especially with the stress and the fainting earlier. We'll need to monitor you."
Alexander didn't take his eyes off me the entire time.
When the doctor left, he spoke again, quieter now. "You don't have to force anything. Rest. If you remember later, you remember."
I nodded, pretending relief. Inside, my thoughts were steady, organized, frighteningly calm.
He stayed. Even when visiting hours ended, he argued—politely, persistently—until they let him sit a little longer. He adjusted the blanket when I shivered. Handed me water. Asked if the lights were too bright.
Too attentive.
Too easy.
By the time my eyes drifted closed again—this time for real—I knew I'd made the right choice.
This wasn't just an opening.
It was an invitation.
And I intended to walk through it slowly, carefully, like a girl who didn't remember the danger she was in.