I didn't sleep.
Not really.
Just curled into the corner of that perfect bed, listening to the walls breathe. Marble doesn't creak like old floorboards whisper like it's trying to warn you without making a sound.
By morning, I was done pretending. I needed to see Lily. I didn't care if it broke every clause in the contract.
I crept out before sunrise. No, Naomi. No staff. No Mark.
Only silence.
The city was still wet with night. I stole a coat from the hall, one of Naomi's probably, and left the house like a ghost. Flagged down a cab with trembling fingers and gave the driver the address I'd memorized from the hospital bracelet tucked in my pocket.
Lily's new ward was on the eighth floor. Private. Cold. Too quiet.
She looked smaller. Paler. Her eyes fluttered open when I walked in, and for a second, the fear broke me in two.
"Ava?" she croaked, her voice barely more than a breath. "You came?"
I sank beside her and kissed her forehead. "Of course, I came."
Her hand in mine was too light, like paper.
"I dreamed you lived in a castle now," she whispered, trying to smile. "With gold walls and silent butlers."
I laughed. It cracked. "You weren't far off."
We didn't speak much after that. Just sat, breathing the same air, pretending that was enough.
Until a nurse entered. Young, polite but her eyes widened just a little too much when she saw me.
And her phone was out before she even left the room.
I swallowed hard.
My fingers tightened around Lily's.
Later, in the hallway, I ducked into the bathroom. Splashed water on my face. Looked into the mirror and didn't see myself.
Just a girl in someone else's coat. A stranger pretending to be rich. Someone clinging to a deal with a man who had rules like barbed wire and eyes like knives.
I pulled the contract from my bag. My hands shook as I found the page I hadn't dared to read before.
Clause Eighteen: Any public exposure outside the pre-approved narrative constitutes reputational damage and is subject to litigation and financial penalty.
Litigation. Penalty.
The words blurred. I shoved the page back and backed away from the sink.
Outside the bathroom, my name echoed in a nurse's call. Loud. Curious.
Time to go.
But as I stepped outside the hospital doors, the morning sun catching my skin like glass
I froze.
Because there it was.
A black car. Familiar. Quiet. Parked at the curb.
And inside?
Damian.
No expression. Just watching.
The rear window rolled down an inch.
"Get in," Mark said from the front seat. His voice was flat.
I did.
The door shut with the softest click like a secret being sealed.
Damian didn't look at me. Not once. His jaw was tight. His hands on his phone. But he wasn't typing.
He was waiting.
I didn't speak either.
Not until we were halfway across the bridge and the silence choked me.
"I had to see her."
"I didn't ask for an explanation," he said, still not looking at me. "You already know the consequences."
My chest squeezed. "She's dying, Damian."
"And if you break the contract again, so will everything you signed it for."
The words cut. And yet something behind them, his voice was too steady. Too rehearsed.
He wasn't angry.
He was worried.
I blinked at him, searching his profile. "You cancelled a meeting."
His head tilted just slightly. "Mark told you?"
"No. You're wearing the same suit from yesterday."
Silence.
His fingers tapped the phone again. Still not typing.
"I've had press alerts all morning," he said. "There's already a picture of you. Outside the ward."
I curled my hands into fists. "I didn't ask to be photographed."
He turned to me then. Slowly. "You asked to be my wife."
That stung. Even if it was true.
"Then maybe stop treating me like a prisoner."
He looked at me like I'd said something ridiculous. "You're not a prisoner, Ava."
"Really? Because I signed a paper that says I can't even breathe without your permission."
His jaw tightened. "And yet you left. You got in a cab. Alone."
The words hovered between us.
He wasn't furious.
He was…calculating. Like he couldn't decide if I was brave or just foolish.
We said nothing else the entire ride back.
—
Across the city, another screen lit up.
In a sleek penthouse lined with glass and steel, Helena Montague lounged on a velvet couch, eyes locked on the morning gossip segment.
Ava's face flashed on the screen.
"Damian Kingsley's new wife caught sneaking into St. Jude's Medical Center early this morning. Witnesses claim she looked distraught…"
Helena smiled.
Not wide. Not joyful.
Sharp.
She picked up her phone and dialled.
"He's watching her," a man's voice said on the other end. "He's starting to care."
"Then it's working," Helena replied, eyes still on the screen. "But she won't last."
She swirled her wine, even though it was barely past ten.
"No girl walks into the fire and comes out whole," she added. "Especially not that one."
And as the camera froze on Ava's anxious face outside the hospital, Helena's smile deepened.
"She doesn't even know what she's stepped into."