Morning light filtered through the heavy velvet drapes, slicing the room into strips of gold and shadow.
Mia was in the ensuite bathroom, splashing cold water on her face. She looked at herself in the mirror. Dark circles bruised the skin under her eyes. She looked exhausted, which was good. It fit the narrative.
Outside, in the main room, she heard the door open.
"Good morning, sweetheart."
Julian. Again.
Mia dried her face and walked out. Julian was leaning against the doorframe, blocking the exit. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"I was thinking," Julian said, stepping forward. "Lucas isn't going to wake up. We both know that. You're a smart girl. You signed a prenup that leaves you with nothing. But... if you make the right friends..."
He reached for her waist.
Mia didn't step back. She held up the doctor's phone.
She pressed play.
...Why won't you just die? Julian's voice filled the room, tinny but unmistakable.
Julian froze. His face went gray. "You bitch."
He lunged for the phone.
Mia side-stepped, smooth as water. "Don't bother," she said coldly. "I've already mirrored the file to a remote server via the hospital's guest network. If I don't punch in a kill-code every twelve hours, it gets emailed to your grandfather and the SEC."
Julian stopped. His hands curled into fists. "You're bluffing."
"Am I?" Mia tilted her head. "I'm a con artist, remember? That's what Howard told you. Do you want to gamble your inheritance on it?"
Julian stared at her, breathing hard. The lust in his eyes was gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated hatred.
"Watch your back, Mia," he spat. He turned and slammed the door behind him.
Mia let out a breath she had been holding. Her knees felt weak. She wasn't afraid of Julian physically, but the constant vigilance was draining.
She turned to the bed to begin the morning muscle massages. It was crucial to keep Lucas's blood flowing.
She rolled up her sleeves and placed her hands on Lucas's biceps. They were hard, not atrophied.
Suddenly, she felt a tremor under her palms.
She looked up.
Lucas's eyes were open.
They were dark, the color of a stormy ocean, and they were staring directly at her. There was no confusion in them. Only violence.
"Who are you?"
His voice was a ruin-gravel and broken glass.
Before Mia could answer, his hand shot up. He grabbed her wrist.
His grip wasn't strong-his muscles were wasted from months of inactivity-but his technique was flawless. He twisted her radius, using leverage rather than brute force to lock her joint.
"Ah!" Mia gasped, trying to pull away.
Lucas used her momentum against her. He yanked, his body shaking with the effort, and Mia lost her balance.
Mia fell onto the bed, landing on his chest.
In a split second, his other hand was around her throat.
His fingers trembled against her skin, weak and fluttery, but the intent was lethal.
"Who sent you?" he rasped, his eyes burning. "Are you with the Russians?"
His memory was stuck in the accident. He thought he was still being ambushed.
Mia couldn't breathe. She clawed at his hand. She could have used a pressure point strike to his ulnar nerve to disable him instantly, but she couldn't expose her skills. Not yet.
"I'm... your... wife," she choked out.
Lucas's eyes narrowed. "Wife? I don't have a wife."
"Mia... Sterling."
The name acted like a bucket of ice water. Lucas's grip loosened slightly, but he didn't let go. Disgust curled his lip.
"Sterling?" he sneered. "Howard's daughter? That snake sold me his daughter?"
"He forced me," Mia gasped, inhaling greedily as his thumb moved off her windpipe. "Just like... he's trying to steal your company. Let go. Please."
Lucas stared at her. He scanned her face, looking for deception. He saw the fear in her eyes (genuine fear of being choked, mixed with the act).
His strength gave out. His arm collapsed, dropping heavily to the mattress. His chest heaved as he gasped for air, the momentary exertion draining his reserves completely.
"Get... water," he commanded.
Mia scrambled off the bed. She rubbed her neck. There would be bruises.
She poured a glass of water from the pitcher, her hands shaking. She brought it to his lips.
He drank greedily, water spilling down his chin.
When he finished, he looked at her. The aggression was dampened by exhaustion, but the suspicion remained.
"Don't think this makes us allies," he whispered, his voice fading as sleep dragged him back down. "I'll remove you... as soon as I can stand."
His eyes closed.
Mia stood there, holding the empty glass. She touched her throat.
"You're welcome," she said to the sleeping man.
