The beeping was the first thing she heard. A steady, rhythmic pulse that matched the throb in her abdomen.
Amaris opened her eyes. The room was dim, lit only by the glow of medical monitors. She was in a hospital bed, a thin gown replacing her clothes.
She turned her head. Cristian was sitting in the chair beside her bed, a stack of documents on his lap. His tie was loosened, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week.
He saw her move and instantly dropped the papers. He was at her side in a second, his hand reaching for the call button.
"Wait," Amaris croaked, her throat dry.
Cristian ignored her, hitting the button. Then he poured a cup of water from the pitcher on the nightstand. He slipped a straw between her lips, holding the cup steady while she drank.
The cool water soothed her throat. She took a deep breath, wincing at the pull in her stomach. "What happened?"
"Appendicitis," Cristian said, his voice rough. "It ruptured. They had to operate."
Before she could process that, her phone buzzed on the nightstand. The screen lit up. Elijah.
Cristian glanced at the name. His eyes went cold, the softness from a moment ago vanishing. He picked up the phone and held it out to her.
Amaris stared at it. She wasn't ready, but she needed to hear his voice. She needed to know if the reality matched the nightmare.
She swiped to answer, pressing the phone to her ear.
"Where are you?" Elijah snapped, skipping any greeting. "I've been calling you for hours. I need you at the Whitmore dinner tonight. You need to smile and fix this PR mess."
Amaris felt a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with the anesthesia. He didn't ask if she was okay. He didn't even know she was in the hospital.
"I can't," she whispered.
"You can, and you will," Elijah commanded, his tone dripping with entitlement. "I'm not asking, Amaris. Be at my apartment by six."
The sheer audacity hit her like a physical blow. Before she could respond, a sudden wave of heat washed over her body. The room spun, the edges of her vision going black. The phone slipped from her grasp, clattering onto the mattress.
She groaned, her eyes rolling back as the fever spiked.
Cristian moved like lightning. He took the phone from her. His thumb pressed down on the end-call button with enough force to make the plastic creak. He then calmly placed it face down on the table, his jaw set like stone. He slammed his hand on the call button again.
"Her temperature is spiking!" he yelled at the nurse running in.
The next few hours were a haze of ice and fire. The doctor called it a postoperative absorption fever. They packed her in ice packs, trying to bring the temperature down.
But the person holding the ice packs wasn't a nurse. It was Cristian.
He sat on the edge of the bed, a basin of ice water beside him. He wrung out the cloth and ran it over her burning forehead, down her neck, and across her wrists. He did it over and over, his movements incredibly gentle, a stark contrast to the harsh, ruthless man the world knew.
Amaris drifted in and out of consciousness, her body shivering under the cold cloths. She mumbled in her delirium, fragments of pain and fear spilling from her lips.
Cristian leaned in closer, his face inches from hers. His jaw was clenched, his eyes bright with unshed tears.
"Don't be afraid, Amy," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm right here."
The name cut through the fog in her brain. Amy. Only one person had ever called her that. Her father. And he was dead.
But the voice was so real, so close. She tried to open her eyes, to find the source, but the fever dragged her back under.
It was dawn when the fever finally broke. Amaris woke up, her body weak but her mind clear. The room was quiet, the morning light painting streaks across the floor.
Cristian was asleep in the chair beside her. His head was tilted back, his breathing deep and even. He still wore the same clothes, his hand resting on the edge of her mattress, as if he was afraid to let go.
Amaris looked at him, a strange warmth blooming in her chest. She reached for her phone on the nightstand, ignoring the cracked screen.
She saw the missed calls from Elijah. Ten of them. The warmth in her chest turned to ice.
She didn't hesitate. She opened her contacts, scrolled to his name, and hit "Block." It was done with a finality that felt like cutting off a limb, but the relief was immediate.
"Amy," she whispered to herself, the word foreign on her tongue. It had to be a dream. A hallucination born of fever and medication.
Cristian stirred. His eyes fluttered open, and for a split second, she saw it again-that raw, desperate look from the office. But in the blink of an eye, it was gone. The shutters came down, and the cold, composed CEO was back.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice perfectly level.
Amaris stared at him, searching his face for any crack in the armor. "Who is Amy?" she asked bluntly.
Cristian didn't flinch. He didn't blink. He just picked up the water pitcher and poured her a glass. "You must have misheard," he said smoothly. "I said Amaris."
He handed her the water, his expression giving nothing away. The mystery hung in the air between them, thick and unsolvable.
