"How can the door get locked by itself?"
Esther's voice is a sharp whip-crack in the hallway which is directed at a flustered nurse. "My husband is sleeping in there! How could he possibly have locked it?"
I hold my breath, peering through the narrow crack of the closet door. It's suffocating inside, dark, cramped, and smelling of stale linen and antiseptic. Every breath feels too loud. Hiding here was a last-second, desperate decision. If I hadn't, Esther would be questioning me right now, or worse, I might have already done something recklessly voilent to silence her.
She keeps barking at the poor nurse, her words clipped and entitled. The nurse finally manages to stammer out an apology about the automatic lock possibly engaging if the door was shut too firmly, and then her quick footsteps retreat down the hall.
Esther huffs, a sound of pure irritation. I watch through the slit as she strides into the room and drops into the chair beside Victor's bed, her back to me. Her perfectly coiffed hair doesn't move an inch.
"Dear God, Victor," she sighs, her voice that particular brand of cranky I once mistook for sophistication. Now, it just grates on my nerves. "How can you sleep through all that commotion?"
I need to get out. Now. Before she turns around, before I lose the last shred of my control and decide to shut her up permanently.
"Victor!" she yells suddenly, her voice sharp. "What kind of bear are you? Victor! Wake up!" She probably shakes his shoulder; I can see her arm move. It won't be long now before she realizes this isn't normal sleep.
She was supposed to find him like this in the evening. This timing is... inconvenient. But it's fine. It's not like they'll ever trace it back to me.
Her voice shifts, the annoyance bleeding into confusion, then a thread of real concern. She's on her feet now, leaning over him. "Victor, are you joking me? Wake up already!" She pats his cheek, harder now. When he remains utterly still, a marionette with cut strings, her panic finally breaks through.
"Help! Someone, help!" Her cry is sharp, genuine fear replacing the drama. Within a minute, the room fills with the soft squeak of rubber soles and urgent voices. Nurses and a doctor rush in.
"He's not waking up! No matter what I do!" Esther cries, her voice trembling with performative tears. "What's happened to him?"
"Please, Mrs. Croft, try to calm down," the doctor says in a practiced, placating tone as he begins his examination. I wish I could see her face clearly, the panic, the confusion. I'd love to laugh right in it.
After a moment, the doctor's voice turns grave. "He's unconscious. His vitals are stable, but he's completely non-responsive. We need to run a series of tests immediately. A full neurological workup, toxicology screening, the works to understand why."
"What kind of medicine did you people put him on that he's like this?" Esther accuses, her fear morphing back into haughty blame. "He was perfectly fine yesterday!"
Typical Esther. Always the drama, even when it's real. She'll milk this for every ounce of sympathy she can get.
The closet door opens with a soft, careful creak. The noise is swallowed by the urgent murmurs of the doctor and Esther's escalating, tearful demands. Everyone is clustered around the bed, their backs to me.
For a single, frozen second, I stand in the doorway of the closet, exposed. Then, moving with a silent, deliberate speed I learned from a lifetime of fleeing worse things, I slip out.
I don't look back. I don't glance at Victor's still form or Esther's dramatic silhouette. My eyes are fixed on the open door to the hallway. In three long strides, I'm through it, turning sharply away from the nurses' station and toward the stairwell at the end of the hall. The heavy door swings shut behind me, muting the sounds of the crisis.
I take the stairs two at a time, my heels echoing too loudly in the concrete enclosure. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of adrenaline and triumph. I did it.
By the time I push through the door into the bright, bustling main lobby, I've forced my breathing to slow. I can't look like I'm running. I smooth my coat, lift my chin, and walk with purpose toward the exit.
The receptionist from earlier looks up as I pass her desk. Our eyes meet. A jolt of alarm shoots through me, but I don't let it touch my face. Instead, I offer her a small, polite smile-the smile of a concerned niece leaving after a difficult visit. She gives a tired, automatic smile in return and looks back at her computer.
Almost there. The automatic doors whoosh open, welcoming the crisp outside air. A wave of relief hits me. I step out, intending to melt into the flow of people on the sidewalk.
And that's when I crash right into a solid wall of charcoal-grey wool and muscle.
Strong hands fly up to catch my shoulders, steadying me before I can stumble back. The impact knocks the air from my lungs. I look up, an apology already dying on my lips.
My eyes meet a pair of cool, familiar grey ones.
Ceron Morrison stares down at me, his expression one of mild surprise that quickly sharpens into intense scrutiny. His grip on my shoulders is firm, unyielding.
My heart is still thundering, a chaotic echo of the closet, Esther, Victor's seizing body. For a second, the world tilts-the crisp hospital air, the scent of his subtle cologne, the piercing grey of his eyes all crashing into the dark adrenaline still coursing through me.
I blink, forcing composure to settle over me like a shield. I straighten up, pulling back from his hold. Before I can form a breathless apology, he speaks.
"Are you alright?" His voice is low, closer to concern than accusation.
"I'm fine," I say, my own voice thankfully steady. I offer a small, polite smile. "I do apologise for bumping into you. I wasn't looking where I was going."
He shoves his hands into the pockets of his impeccably tailored dark trousers, his gaze never leaving my face. A hint of amusement touches his lips. "It seems to be a habit of ours. The first time was at the Aethelred show, if I recall."
"Oh," I say, the memory flashing. "Yes, I suppose it was."
"I must say, Miss Ashford," he says, and that look is back (the one that feels like it's trying to peel back my layers.) "This is an unexpected place for a meeting."
My mind races. "An old family friend is undergoing treatment here," I lie smoothly, gesturing vaguely back toward the building. "I was just paying a visit." The words taste like ash, considering what I just left behind.
He nods slowly, as if filing the information away. "A kind gesture."
I need to turn this around. "And you, Mr. Morrison? What brings you to a hospital on a Sunday?"
"Due diligence," he replies easily, his tone neutral. "Morrison World is considering a philanthropic partnership with their pediatric oncology wing. I prefer to see the facilities for myself."
It's a perfectly reasonable, even noble, explanation. Yet, something about the timing feels... pointed.
I start to step sideways, offering another polite smile. "Well, I won't keep you. Have a good day."
"Actually," he says, the single word stopping me in my tracks. "If you're not rushing off... are you busy? Do you have other plans?"
Why is he asking me? It's Sunday. The question feels loaded.
"Nothing planned yet," I admit, keeping my tone light and formal.
Then, to my genuine surprise, he asks, "Would you care to join me for a cup of coffee?"
My breath catches. Is he asking me out... like that? The thought sends a bizarre, unwarmed flutter through my chest, immediately followed by suspicion.
He seems to read the hesitation on my face. A faint, knowing smile appears. "I assure you, it's nothing of that sort. Purely a discussion about the Winter Couture project. I have a few thoughts on the phoenix narrative. If that's acceptable to you."
Oh. Of course. Now it makes sense. Business. Always business.
Should I say yes? I was going to go home, watch the live feed of the Croft family implosion, and lose myself in work. That was the plan.
But Ceron Morrison is an enigma. Ever since that first moment at the show, his gaze has fallen on me in a way I can't quite explain. It irks me. It intrigues me. And right now, intrigued is a better feeling than the cold, clinical triumph still humming in my veins.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "A cup of coffee would be fine."
