Dahlia was on her hands and knees.
She had dropped the cane again. It had rolled away, clattering across the linoleum floor of her room. She swept her hands across the cold tiles, feeling for it.
Dust. Lint. No cane.
She crawled forward. Just a few more inches.
Her hand struck something.
It wasn't the cane. It was a shoe. A man's shoe.
She froze. Her fingers rested on the leather toe cap. She could feel the quality of the material. Smooth. expensive.
Her hand traveled up. A crisp pant leg. Suit fabric.
Dahlia?
The voice came from above. It wasn't a hallucination this time. It was real. And it was furious.
Dahlia scrambled back. She lost her balance and landed hard on her bottom. Her glasses went askew.
Clive? Her voice was a squeak. What... what are you doing here?
Clive stared down at her.
She looked like a wreck. The hospital gown was bunching up. Her hair was a bird's nest. She was crawling on the floor like a beggar.
This was his wife.
A Harrington.
Rage flared in his chest. Not at her, exactly. But at the image. At the Douglas family. At the universe that allowed this indignity.
He didn't answer. He bent down.
What are you- Dahlia started to protest.
He didn't let her finish. He slid one arm under her knees and the other behind her back.
He lifted her.
She was shockingly light. She felt fragile, like hollow bones and paper skin.
Clive! Put me down!
She flailed, her hand smacking against his chest. It was like hitting a wall.
Stop moving, he ordered. You're blind, not deaf.
He held her tight against him. Her face was pressed into the lapel of his suit. She smelled it again. The cedar. The rain. It was overwhelming.
He carried her out of the room.
Where are we going? She was panicking. People were looking. She could feel their eyes, hear the sudden hush in the corridor.
To a room that isn't a closet, Clive snapped.
He shot a glare over his shoulder at Arthur, a silent command to handle the room and its contents, and carried her down the hall, past the gaping nurses, past Arthur who was frantically making calls.
Clive, please, Dahlia whispered. This is embarrassing.
You crawling on the floor was embarrassing, he countered. This is damage control.
He marched to the elevator, ignoring the waiting crowd. Arthur cleared the car.
They went up. Top floor. The VIP suites.
He carried her into a room that smelled of fresh lilies and money. He deposited her on the bed. It was softer than the one downstairs.
He stood over her, breathing slightly harder than usual.
Why didn't you tell me?
Dahlia straightened her gown. She felt exposed. Vulnerable.
The contract, she said. Clause 34B. No emotional obligations. I didn't want to bother you.
Clive felt like punching the wall.
You didn't want to bother me? He laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. So you decided to have major surgery alone? What if there were complications? Who was going to sign for you? Arthur?
I did put Arthur down, she mumbled.
Clive dragged a hand down his face. You put my lawyer as your emergency contact instead of your husband.
You were in London!
I have a jet, Dahlia!
The shout hung in the room.
Dahlia shrank back against the pillows. She had never heard him raise his voice. He was always so cold, so controlled.
Clive saw her flinch. He forced himself to exhale. He adjusted his cufflinks. A nervous tic.
He walked to the window. He needed distance. If he stayed close to her, he might do something irrational. Like shake her. Or hug her.
This room is ridiculous, she said into the silence. It probably costs two thousand a night.
Five, Clive corrected. And stop thinking like a pauper. You are a Harrington. If the press found out you were in a standard recovery room, without private security, the stock would drop two points.
Is that all you care about? The stock?
Clive turned to look at her. She couldn't see him, but he stared at her bandaged face. He looked at her hands, twisting the bedsheet.
No, he said softly. But he didn't say what else he cared about.
He pressed the intercom button on the wall.
Get the Chief of Medicine in here. Now.
