Inside Memorial Hospital, a nurse carefully cleaned Elena’s wounds. Tiny shards of glass had embedded deep, each one painstakingly removed.
Damian leaned against the doorway, arms folded, his silence heavy.
From the hotel to the hospital, he had not spoken a word. His silence pressed down on Elena like iron.
And the memory of the last time she’d been in his home—leaving behind her underwear there by accident—still burned in her cheeks.
“All done. Keep the wounds dry for a while. Apply the medicine daily. Nothing too serious,” the nurse said, before leaving.
Damian stepped inside and, instead of escorting her out, sat down beside her bed.
“Tell me. What happened?”
“Were you bullied?”
His fingers tapped across his phone screen, his dark gaze unreadable. The weight of him was both frightening and protective.
It wasn’t the first time he had saved her.
But she could not tell him the truth. He was Adrian’s uncle. She still knew her boundaries.
Outside, two young nurses whispered as they passed the corridor.
“Did you see? Mr. Shaw carried Miss Cole in like she was made of porcelain. And all for just a little redness on her wrist!”
“During the treatment, she cried about the pain, and he held her in his arms the whole time. It was like something out of a drama series!”
…
Elena’s eyes remained calm, though her heart twisted faintly. But the ache of her body numbed the pain in her chest.
Damian studied her bowed head, his expression darkening further. He stood abruptly. “I’ll go check.”
Alarmed, Elena grabbed his arm. The sudden movement sent pain searing through her ribs, her breath catching in a hiss.
“Don’t.”
Her voice shook—whether from the sting of her wounds or the torment inside, he could not tell.
His jaw tightened. “Fine. I won’t. Sit still.”
He sank back into his chair with a sigh.
“My matters with Adrian are complicated. I can handle them myself. Thank you for helping me today, Uncle, but this fight is mine.”
Her words were quiet, resolute.
Damian’s gaze lingered on her, shadowed, but he said no more.
“…Alright.”
Uncertain of his temper, Elena lowered her eyes. Had her repeated refusals angered him?
But when she glanced up, he was already gathering her medicine.
“Come. I’ll take you home.”
She rose carefully. With the bandages binding her wounds, the pain dulled enough for her to walk slowly on her own. Damian followed, silent, steady.
As they passed through the first-floor lobby, Elena’s breath hitched. There he was again—Adrian—cradling Vivian like a fragile treasure, carrying her out with infinite care.
Her eyes burned, but before the tears could fall, a large hand covered her vision, shielding her.
“Don’t torment yourself.”
His scent—faint tea leaves—wrapped around her. So close, so steady, it unsettled her more than she wished.
“…Thank you, Uncle.”
Exhaling, Elena steadied herself, then lifted her head with practiced composure and walked on as though nothing had happened.
At the gates of the mansion, she turned to thank him, but Damian spoke first.
“If you need me, for the Shaw family or anything else, call me.”
He handed her a business card, his tone as cold as ever, but with a trace of something softer—an unspoken care.
She froze, card in hand.
“…Alright. Drive safe, Uncle.”
He waved her toward the door. She nodded and stepped inside.
In his car, Damian pulled out his phone. A message from his aide, Mark West, glowed on the screen:
Mark: Mr. Shaw, everything’s been investigated. Do you want me to release it now?
Damian’s fingers brushed over the rosary beads in his hand, shadows cloaking his gaze. Danger seemed to pulse from him.
After a pause, he replied:
Damian: Not yet. Reject the contract Cole Corporation offered. No cooperation.
She wanted to fight her own battles—so he would let her.
As for Adrian, Damian’s lips curved in a cold smile.
Fool.
It seemed his own plans would need to move forward sooner than expected.
