Cayla POV
I woke up to the acrid sting of antiseptic and the rhythmic, monotonous beeping of a machine.
My head felt like it had been cleaved in two with an axe.
I forced my eyes open.
Grafton was standing at the foot of the bed.
He wasn't looking at me with concern.
He was looking at me with a cold, simmering fury.
"You reckless bitch," he spat.
I blinked, trying to clear the heavy fog clouding my vision.
"I... I won."
"You totaled a three-hundred-thousand-dollar McLaren," he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous octave. "And you embarrassed me in front of the Triads. A woman driving my car?"
He gripped the bed rail, his knuckles turning white from the pressure.
"Did you think playing the hero would make me want you? Is that it?"
The accusation hit harder than the airbag had.
"I did it to save your life," I rasped, my throat feeling like it was lined with sandpaper.
"You did it for attention," he corrected icily. "You're obsessed, Cayla. It's pathetic."
He leaned in, his expensive musk cologne mixing nauseatingly with the smell of hospital bleach.
"Let me be clear. I will never love you. You are a tool. A useful one, but merely a tool."
I stared blankly at the ceiling.
I didn't cry.
I had no tears left for him.
"Get out," I said.
Grafton looked surprised by my defiance.
I never spoke back.
Before he could respond, his phone rang.
His expression softened instantly, a transformation so jarring it made my chest ache.
"Cherrelle? Baby, are you okay?"
He listened, nodding intently.
"I'm coming. Don't move."
He hung up and looked at me with renewed annoyance.
"Cherrelle twisted her ankle getting out of the spectator stand. I have to go."
"She twisted her ankle," I repeated flatly, disbelief coloring my tone. "I have a concussion and three broken ribs."
"She's delicate," he said, turning his back on me without hesitation. "You're... durable."
With that, he walked out.
I lay there for an hour.
No nurse came.
Grafton must have ordered them to prioritize the VIP suite upstairs.
I needed water. Desperately.
I tried to sit up, and the room spun violently.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed.
My knees buckled the moment they took my weight.
I crashed to the floor, my IV line ripping out, blood spattering across the cold linoleum.
I dragged myself to the door, gasping for air, every breath sending shards of glass through my ribs.
I just wanted to find a nurse.
I looked down the hallway.
The door to the VIP suite was ajar.
I saw them.
Cherrelle was sitting on the bed, her foot propped up on a fluffed pillow.
There was not a scratch on her.
Grafton was sitting in a chair next to her.
He was holding a knife and an apple.
He carefully peeled the skin in one long, continuous strip, his movements precise and mesmerizing.
He sliced a piece and fed it to her.
His face was tender.
Gentle.
I had never seen him look like that.
He was capable of love.
Just not for me.
I pulled myself up using the doorframe, gritting my teeth against the agony, and limped back to my bed.
I discharged myself three hours later, signing the forms with a shaking hand.
I limped to the elevator, holding my ribs.
The doors slid open.
Grafton was pushing Cherrelle in a wheelchair.
She saw me, and her eyes narrowed into slits.
"Oh, look, Grafton. She's walking. I told you she was faking it."
Cherrelle stood up from the wheelchair-miraculously healed-and took a step toward me.
Then, with a calculated smirk, she threw herself backward.
She landed on the carpet with a theatrical scream.
"She pushed me! Grafton, she pushed me!"
It was so absurd, so obviously fake.
But Grafton didn't see logic.
He saw red.
He slammed me against the wall.
My head cracked against the plaster, the impact sickeningly loud, reopening the wound from the crash.
Warm blood trickled down my neck.
"Touch her again," Grafton growled, his forearm pressing crushing weight against my throat, "and I will kill you myself."
He scooped Cherrelle up in his arms, treating her like fragile glass.
He stepped over me as I slid down the wall.
He didn't look back.
