I rolled onto my side, staring at the wall, and that's when the thought slipped in—quiet, sharp.
Liam.
My chest tightened a little.
How was he going to react to this?
That man couldn't sit still if he didn't hear from me for even a day. Two days without contact and he'd already be tearing systems apart, calling in favors, blaming himself in that quiet, dangerous way he had. He'd pretend he was calm, professional—but I knew better. I always did.
I pressed my lips together and let out a slow breath.
I hadn't contacted him yet. Part of it was the circumstances—hospital, confusion, this carefully constructed story—but another part of it was fear. Not of the mission. Of him. Of the look he'd give me if he knew I was here, under another man's roof, injured, pretending to be fragile.
He hated when I got hurt.
He hated even more when he couldn't protect me.
I could already imagine him pacing, jaw tight, replaying every second of that night in his head, wondering what he missed, what he should have done differently. He'd blame himself before blaming the world. He always did that too.
"I'm okay," I whispered to the empty room, as if he could hear me. As if saying it out loud would make it true.
But was I?
I lifted a hand and pressed my fingers lightly to my temple. The ache pulsed back in response—real enough to ground me. This wasn't entirely an act. My body remembered pain even if my mind was choosing what to reveal.
I'll call him soon, I promised myself. When I can control the narrative.
I needed him calm. Focused. Not storming in here like a force of nature and blowing everything apart. Liam was brilliant, but emotions made him reckless where I was concerned—and that scared me more than any enemy ever could.
I shifted under the blankets, pulling them closer, feeling oddly small in the oversized bed. The room smelled faintly of clean linen and something expensive, unfamiliar. Another reminder that I was far from home—whatever home even meant anymore.
Somewhere down the hall, a door closed softly.
He was still here.
The thought stirred something complicated in me—gratitude, unease, curiosity. This plan was working a little too well, and that alone should have set every alarm in my head screaming.
I closed my eyes, forcing my breathing to slow.
One step at a time.
One lie at a time.
And soon—very soon—I would have to face Liam and explain why I disappeared… and why, for the first time, I hadn't run straight back to him.
Later that night, when the house had settled into a quiet hum and the lights outside my window dimmed into distant constellations, I finally decided to get ready for bed.
I moved slowly, still careful with my head, listening to the soft echo of my steps against the polished floor. I changed into a simple dark‑purple dress—nothing dramatic, just soft fabric that brushed my thighs and made me feel like myself again, if only a little. It was the kind of dress you wore when you wanted comfort without surrendering dignity.
I was just about to pull the covers back and climb into bed when there was a knock at the door.
Gentle. Considerate.
I froze for half a second, then turned. "You can come in," I said.
The door opened, and he stepped inside.
What caught my attention first wasn't him—it was the tray in his hands. Perfectly balanced, carefully arranged. The warm, comforting scent of food followed him into the room, rich and unfamiliar, making my stomach twist as I realized how long it had been since I'd eaten properly.
"I thought you might be hungry," he said quietly, almost unsure, as if he didn't want to impose.
He crossed the room and placed the tray on the small table near the window. The dishes looked elegant, almost artistic—carefully prepared meals with colors and textures I didn't even know how to name. There were things glazed and layered, something steaming softly, a small bowl of what looked like soup, and bread arranged neatly on the side.
I stared at it for a moment, genuinely taken aback.
"You didn't have to do all this," I said, my voice softer than I meant it to be.
He shrugged lightly, avoiding my eyes for a second. "I wanted to."
That simple answer landed heavier than any grand gesture could have.
He stepped back, giving me space, like he was afraid of crossing an invisible line. I noticed the way he kept glancing at me—not intrusively, but carefully—like he was checking that I was still standing, still breathing, still here.
"Please," he added, gesturing toward the tray. "At least try. The doctor said you need strength."
I nodded and moved closer, sitting at the edge of the bed. The warmth from the food curled into the room, grounding me in the present moment. For the first time since the accident, since the chaos, since the lies I was already weaving—I felt something dangerously close to normal.
"Thank you," I said again, this time meaning more than just the food.
He gave a small smile at that. Not proud. Not smug. Just… relieved.
"I'll let you rest," he said, backing toward the door. "If you need anything—anything at all—I'm just down the hall."
As the door closed behind him, I looked back at the tray, then at the bed, then at my reflection faintly mirrored in the dark window.
Things were moving fast. Too fast.
And yet… as I picked up my fork, my hands no longer shaking, I couldn't deny it.
For tonight, at least, I wasn't alone.
And that's when I noticed it—how quiet the place really was.
For a house this large, this refined, there should've been more noise. More footsteps. More voices overlapping, laughter drifting from distant rooms, the hum of life happening all at once. But there wasn't. Just silence layered over silence.