Keeley lay quietly on the soft, pristine white hospital bed. The dangerous red flush of her fever had finally faded.
Inside the clear IV tube, the medication dripped steadily into the blue vein on the back of her hand.
Holland had taken off his suit jacket. Wearing only a dark dress shirt, he sat in the single leather armchair right beside her bed.
His deep eyes were fixed on Keeley's face, unblinking, as if trying to carve her features into his very bones.
Stripped of his polite, academic mask, his eyes boiled with a dark, greedy possessiveness.
He slowly leaned forward. He reached out with his long fingers and gently brushed away a few stray hairs sticking to her forehead.
His movements were agonizingly gentle, carrying a reverent carefulness that completely contradicted his usual ruthless dominance.
In her sleep, Keeley seemed to sense something. Her brows pulled together slightly, and the fingers of her free hand twitched.
Holland instantly flipped his hand over and wrapped her small, cool hand entirely within his large, warm palm.
In the middle of this quiet moment, Holland's private phone sitting on the marble nightstand suddenly let out a harsh vibration.
Holland's eyes turned to ice. He quickly picked up the device and glanced at the caller ID. It was an unknown number, but his photographic memory immediately recognized the digits—it was the exact same contact number printed on the tacky gold-embossed resume Emilee Harper had shoved in his face earlier.
To prevent the noise from waking Keeley, he pressed answer and brought the phone to his ear without saying a word.
Emilee's sickeningly sweet, fake voice immediately came through the speaker, calling him "Mr. Klein."
She aggressively tried to sell herself, hinting at an invitation to dinner at a Michelin-starred restaurant tonight.
Then, her tone turned sly and conspiratorial. "I'm sure you appreciated Keeley's technical work, but between you and me, Mr. Klein, a junior who only knows how to bury her head in code will never help you network or close deals. Some of us actually understand how to move in your world."
Hearing this, the corner of Holland's mouth curled into a smile of pure, cruel contempt.
He turned his head to look at Keeley, who was still sleeping peacefully. A fierce protectiveness surged in his chest.
Using a low, arrogant, and freezing tone, he mercilessly cut off Emilee's rambling.
"I don't need networking advice from a stranger who confuses a resume with a dinner invitation," he said. "And the fact that you think my interest in her code is technical tells me you understand nothing—neither code, nor me."
He coldly announced that his time was extremely expensive, and he had absolutely zero tolerance for desperate, talentless climbers attempting to bypass professional boundaries.
"If you ever approach me—or Keeley Jackson—again, I will personally ensure your resume is blacklisted from every tech firm on the East Coast," he stated softly, his voice dripping with lethal warning.
Emilee was so shocked she lost the ability to speak, only managing to let out an awkward, choked sound.
Holland didn't give her a single second to recover. He pressed the end call button.
With practiced ease, he dragged her number straight into the block list, permanently cutting off the annoying woman's fantasies.
Having disposed of the trash, he tossed the phone back onto the table and returned his full attention to Keeley.
He lowered his head and pressed a soft, highly restrained kiss right above the vein on the back of her hand.
