He was standing at the far end of the hallway, his back to her, staring out the large arched window. He'd already showered and changed into a perfectly tailored charcoal gray suit, every inch the ruthless CEO of the Knight Group. The wild, drunken man from last night was gone, replaced by this cold, imposing stranger.
He heard the click of her door but didn't turn around. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "You're awake. Get ready. Mason will be here this afternoon to take you to Utah."
A knot of ice formed in Asha's stomach, but her face remained calm. She walked toward him, her footsteps silent on the thick runner. "Darien," she said, her voice soft but firm. "I'm not going."
She reached for his hand. He moved it away before she could touch him, a subtle, deliberate rejection that stung more than a slap.
He finally turned, his eyes meeting hers. They were a chaotic mix of regret, confusion, and a coldness that was clearly a conscious choice, a wall he had erected between them.
"You think what happened last night changes anything?" he asked, his voice low and harsh.
Asha shook her head, her gaze unwavering. "I didn't do drugs," she said, her voice clear and steady. "And I was never going to leave you."
A bitter, humorless smile touched his lips. "I've heard that before."
She knew words were useless. But her body wasn't.
She raised her arm, pulling back the sleeve to reveal the pale skin of her inner wrist. The same wrist she had bitten open hours ago in front of him. It was perfectly smooth. No wound. No scar. Nothing but unblemished, flawless skin.
"Look," she said quietly.
His gaze dropped to her wrist. The cold mask cracked—a hairline fracture in the wall he had spent all morning rebuilding. "That's... impossible."
"Nothing about me is what you remember anymore, Darien. I wasn't on drugs. I was never planning to run away. I was framed." She lowered her arm but kept her eyes locked on his. "I came back to prove that to you. One chance. That's all I'm asking. Give yourself a chance to see the truth before you let them blind you again."
She stepped closer, rising on her toes, and wrapped her arm around his waist, pressing her face against the hard wall of his chest.
"Darien, please," she whispered into the fine wool of his suit. "Don't send me away. I don't want to go anywhere."
The feel of her small frame pressed against him, the quiet desperation in her voice—it was a direct assault on the walls he'd just rebuilt. He was torn. His mind screamed that it was a trick, a calculated, manipulative ploy. But the part of him that remembered the little girl who used to follow him everywhere was beginning to break.
He pushed her away, but his movements were gentle this time.
"Fine," he said, his voice strained. "I'll give you that chance."
He pulled out his phone and dialed their family doctor, his voice clipped and authoritative as he ordered him to come to the manor immediately with a blood collection kit.
Asha watched him, a small, secret victory blooming in her chest. She'd won the first round.
The doctor arrived quickly, a portly man with a kind face that was currently etched with professional concern. He examined Asha's wrist, frowning deeply. "Miss Thorne... the laceration I was told about? It's not here."
"It was never as deep as he thought," Asha said evenly, not breaking Darien's gaze.
The doctor shook his head, cleaned the faint redness that was barely visible on her skin, then efficiently drew a vial of blood. Darien stood by the entire time, his face a thunderous mask, his eyes fixed on Asha. He didn't say a word, but the raw, protective fury radiating from him was palpable—mixed now with something new: the first tremor of uncertainty.
Once the sample was secured, Darien took the vial himself. He turned to leave, pausing at the door.
"Until the results come back," he commanded, his voice once again cold and distant, "you are not to leave this manor. You will not set one foot outside that front door."
Asha watched him leave, a small, secret victory blooming in her chest. She had planted the first seed. He had seen the impossible. The healing arts of her past life had done what no argument could—they had shaken his certainty. The game was still in its opening moves, and she had just revealed the first hidden weapon.
