Fawn’s POV

I watched three pairs of eyes turn on Blake. What they didn’t think—

“Mrs. Huntington,” the older doctor said carefully, drawing my attention back to him. “You were in a car accident six months ago. You’ve been in a coma. Do you… remember anything? Anything at all?”

Everything inside me went still.

Mrs. Huntington?

“Mrs. Huntington? Car accident?” I repeated.

“Well, that’s one way to describe being murdered in a bathtub,” my brain supplied. My tongue stayed wisely silent. Was that how they’d covered up what they’d done? Put me in a car before crushing it… thinking I was dead.

My heart pounded harder, like it was trying to break out of this too-perfect chest. Six months? Coma? No. I’d been in a bath. Flashes like freeze-frames from a movie flickered through my mind like some black-and-white Hitchcock film. Lavender to help my headache. Gemma grinning at me. Richard’s calm, cruel voice. My lungs burning as I struggled to breathe while more water rushed into my mouth. The panic was still very real.

It hadn’t been a dream… I was here, in a hospital, after all, wasn’t I? Everything was so confusing…

No. I wasn’t. Not really.

After seeing that person in the reflection on the TV, I knew I was no longer Fawn Jones. I didn’t know what was going on… but I would.

I tried to sit up straighter. My body responded, muscles engaging in ways I didn’t recognize—but they worked. Definitely not coma-soft. My… breasts felt different. Higher. Fuller, in a way that didn’t match the rest of the slim, toned frame. Great. Either reincarnation came with an upgrade package, or this body had expensive taste in surgeons. I had the urge to reach up and touch them, to see if they were real—but I’d wait until everyone left.

Then the room tilted.

A wave of dizziness crashed over me. The monitors shrieked again.

“Lie back,” the younger doctor said quickly, hands up like he was soothing a wild animal. “Please. Your body’s been inactive for a long time. We need to assess—”

“Inactive?” I snapped, then winced as my throat protested. “Yeah, sure, that explains why I feel like I could run a damn marathon.” I lay back as he asked. I felt weird. Off.

Blake’s mouth twitched, just for a second, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to find that funny.

He stepped closer to the bed, ignoring the doctors’ subtle attempts to shift between us. To keep him back. I had just said my husband had murdered me.

“Cassie,” he said quietly. His voice dropped lower, almost intimate. “Do you know who I am?”

My gaze flicked to him. “Blake,” I said before I could stop myself. “Blake Huntington.”

Something flashed in his eyes. “So you remember me.”

I swallowed. Did I? I remembered him from the cover of GQ and Richard’s bitter rants, from interviews on business channels when I’d been bored enough to watch. I’d seen him at one charity gala, across the room, laughing with someone important while Richard muttered about sharks and vultures and huge egos. Blake Huntington had never spoken to me, though.

And I had never stood this close to him. Never had those grey eyes focused on me like that… sharp and intense—but not in a loving way.

“I… know of you,” I managed.

The older doctor glanced between us, frowning. “Mr. Huntington, we’ll need to run a full neurological workup—”

“Do whatever you need,” Blake said, not taking his eyes off me. “Just tell me how this was possible… how you didn’t pick up this was even a possibility. You told me she wouldn’t be waking up.”

That stung, and I didn’t know why. I didn’t know him… knew of him, yes, like I’d said. But he didn’t want me here. That was clear from his tone.

“I’m right here,” I muttered. “Please stop talking like I’m not. It’s rude.”

The older doctor cleared his throat. “Can you tell us your full name?” he asked gently.

That should’ve been easy.

I opened my mouth.

“I’m F—”

The word stuck in my throat, caught on something jagged and invisible. A sharp, stabbing pain shot through my skull, like someone had shoved a needle behind my eyes and twisted. With the thought came a mental image. Yuck. That only made it worse.

My vision whited out for a second. The heart monitor spiked, shrill and panicked as my pulse jumped.

“F…” I gasped. “Err…” I squeezed my eyes shut, fingers clawing into the sheet, riding out the flash of agony.

The pain eased as soon as I stopped trying to force the name out. I exhaled shakily, sweat prickling at my hairline.

When I opened my eyes, the room felt… wrong. No. It wasn’t the room. It was me.

I wasn’t the same. I already knew that. Everything sort of went fuzzy again.

I stopped trying to talk. If I wasn’t the same woman, they know who I was? I didn’t know what was going on, and until I did, maybe I should play dumb. They hadn’t called me Fawn… what had they called me? My brain hurt so much, it took me a moment to even focus on the people in the room. I felt like I was going in slow motion but everything around me was at normal speed.

“Why don’t you tell me who I am first?” I said instead.

They had called her Cassandra or Mrs Huntington. But who was she? The nurse had gone completely pale. The younger doctor looked like someone had just told him ghosts were real. The older one recovered first, his face smoothing into that professional blankness I was starting to really hate. They must think I’d lost my mind… and maybe I had. Tick that box… being murdered probably did things to a person.

“I think we’re dealing with some confusion,” he said in that calm, patronizing tone doctors use when you say something they don’t like. “Your name is Cassandra Huntington. Cassie. You’re twenty-five. You were in a car accident six months ago. Before that, you lived here. In this city. You’re married to—”

“Ex. Soon-to-be ex,” Blake cut in automatically. His gaze flicked to the older doctor, jaw tight. “We were in the process of divorcing.”

Wait. What?

They thought I was Blake’s wife.

The older doctor nodded once. “Separated, then.” He turned back to me.

The room seemed to drop a few inches, like the floor had tilted. I swallowed hard, forcing air into my lungs.

After a moment, I said before I could stop myself, “Well. Tell all of that to the part of me that watched my husband and his mistress hold me under bathwater.”

Silence crashed down.

Blake’s head snapped toward me so fast I was surprised he didn’t give himself whiplash.

“What are you saying?” he demanded.

The doctors exchanged looks. The younger one scribbled something on a chart like that would fix any of this.

“I think,” the older doctor began carefully, “that we may be dealing with some… delusional memories. It’s not uncommon after traumatic brain injury. We’ll schedule an MRI and—”

“I don’t have brain damage,” I snapped, then gave a humourless little laugh because, okay, I could practically hear the universe going sure. “Or if I do, it’s the least of my problems.”

I dropped my gaze to my hands again, flexing my fingers. The muscles responded beautifully. This wasn’t what a body should feel like after six months in bed. This wasn’t what my body had ever felt like.

Somewhere deep inside, that same tug I’d felt when I was ripped out of my own body stirred again. Less violent now. More… anchored. Like something had clicked into place.

'If not in this life… then in the next. I will make sure they pay.'

My own words echoed at the back of my mind—the vow I’d made while dying. I’d assumed that meant heaven or hell or nothingness. Not waking up in some stranger’s hospital gown with my husband’s enemy staring at me like I’d crawled out of the grave just to spite him.

Maybe I had.

Blake stepped closer again, ignoring the doctor’s attempt to move between us.

“Cassie,” he said, voice low. “What’s the last thing you remember before… this?”

“I told you, my name’s—” I started, then stopped. Pain flickered behind my eyes again. Less intense, but a clear warning.

Fine. I won’t say my name then.

It was like something was holding me back.

“Bath,” I said instead. “Lavender oil. Headache. Richard being… overly polite. Gemma hovering like the rat she is. Then hands pushing me under, holding me there. And a pull. Then… nothing.”

Blake’s eyes darkened. “Richard?” he asked slowly. “Who the fuck is Richard?”

My husband. Past tense. The word curled bitter on my tongue, and I couldn’t help saying it. “Husband.”

Blake went very still. “You know who I am, and my name isn’t Richard,” he said quietly. “So unless you married a second time without me knowing… why do you remember being murdered in a bath but not the car accident that put you here?”

“Are you seriously arguing with the murdered woman about the details?” I shot back, because apparently near-death didn’t kill my sarcasm.

The nurse made a strangled sound that might’ve been a laugh if she weren’t clearly freaking out.

The older doctor sighed, rubbing his forehead. “We’re moving you to ICU for monitoring,” he said firmly, slipping back into full authority mode. “Mr. Huntington, we’ll need you to step out while we run tests.”

For a second, Blake looked like he might refuse. His gaze stayed on my face, searching for something. Recognition. Maybe proof I was insane.

Well, I was fresh out of sanity. After being murdered, no one would be surprised.

Whatever he saw, it wasn’t enough.

But he nodded.

“Fine,” he said, straightening, pulling his shoulders back, sliding the mask of the controlled, untouchable billionaire back into place. “But I’ll be back.”

The way he said it sent a shiver through me that had nothing to do with the cold hospital air.

He turned to leave, grabbing his suit jacket, then paused at the door. When he looked back at me, his expression was unreadable.

His gaze took everything in.

“Don’t think this changes anything.” His jaw tightened. “We are still over.”

The doctors ushered him out. The nurse busied herself with wires and lines and things I didn’t want to think too hard about.

I sank back against the pillows as the adrenaline ebbed, leaving me shaky and cold.

I should’ve been dead. I had been dead. I remembered floating above my body, lifeless in the water.

Instead, I was here. Alive. Breathing. In someone else’s flawless, expensive body with great hooters. In a room belonging to a woman everyone apparently believed was Blake Huntington’s brain-dead wife.

I knew that look in his eyes. I’d seen it in the mirror when I thought of Richard. I’d hated Richard long before the end.

And somewhere out there, my husband and his mistress thought they’d gotten away with murdering me.

I stared up at the ceiling, letting the beeps and hums settle into a rhythm around me.

“Okay,” I whispered to the universe, to whatever had yanked me through darkness and dropped me here. “You wanted me to come back?”

A slow, dangerous calm slid over me, coiling with the fire I’d found at the bottom of that bath.

“Fine. I’ll come back.”

I curled my fingers into the thin blanket, feeling unfamiliar muscles tighten, a stranger’s heart thudding hard in my chest.

“But this time, it will be different,” I promised. “I’m not going to be the weak one.”

And somewhere deep inside, that vow settled like a seed.

Awakening. Not for redemption.

For sin. For revenge.

I might really go to hell by the time I’m done.

Fawn’s POV

I waited until the room cleared, until the last nurse checked my vitals and promised to be right back, before carefully swinging my legs over the side of the bed. My muscles responded with surprising strength. Yeah, I was a little shaky, but nothing like what six months of bed rest should have done to them. I knew it was going to take time to build my strength up.

The IV tugged uncomfortably against my skin as I moved. I hesitated only a moment before carefully peeling back the tape and sliding the needle out with a slight wince. A tiny bead of blood formed at the puncture site, which I dabbed away with my fingertip. The bleeding stopped soon enough.

My balance wavered, then steadied. I took one step, then another, my bare feet silent on the cold floor. The hospital gown gaped open at the back, but I didn’t care. I needed to see.

The bathroom was small, institutional, with harsh fluorescent lighting and a mirror above a basic sink. I didn’t expect more, this was a hospital, not a five-star hotel. I braced myself against the counter, finally raising my eyes to the reflection.

A stranger stared back.

So, it wasn’t an illusion or a dream. I really was a supermodel.

I pressed my palm to the mirror, touching my reflection. No—not my own. Cassandra’s. Icy blue eyes, not brown. High cheekbones, not the rounded ones I’d grown up hating. Full, plump lips. Whoever had been taking care of Cassie hadn’t let her beauty diminish. Her lips were a little dry, but her skin and hair were clean and in good condition.

“Who were you?” I whispered. “Why does Blake want to divorce you? Why does he hate you?”

The woman in the mirror didn’t answer. She just looked scared, those light blue eyes wide with disbelief.

I traced my new face, feeling the unfamiliar angles. This body was taller than my old one, the limbs longer, the waist more defined. My fingers moved down my neck, across a collarbone that jutted more sharply than mine ever had, to the curve of a breast that was definitely bigger.

A laugh bubbled up, edging into hysteria. “Did you pay for these?” I cupped them, feeling their weight. “Christ, what else did you upgrade?” After having a good feel, I snorted. “Shit. They’re real. You lucky bitch.”

I turned, examining my profile in the mirror. Then I reached back and tugged the gown open, letting it fall from my shoulders to pool at my feet.

“Holy shit,” I breathed.

I knew I should be freaking out… I mean, I was in another woman’s body. But I wasn’t dead. That had to be better than being dead, right?

And what a body. It was perfect—the kind that graced magazine covers and made women hate themselves. Smooth skin with defined shape, just enough softness to be feminine. The breasts were full and high, natural despite what I’d initially thought. No scars. No imperfections except a small birthmark on my left hip shaped like a love heart.

I ran my hands down my sides, over my stomach, my thighs. Everything felt foreign. Like wearing a costume made of flesh.

The door clicked open behind me.

I spun, about to grab for the gown, but it was too late.

Blake stood frozen in the doorway, his grey eyes locked on my naked body for one long, charged second before he slammed them shut and turned his back.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “I knocked.”

He acted like he’d never seen me naked before.

“Well, I didn’t hear you,” I shot back, heat flooding my cheeks as I yanked the gown back on. My fingers fumbled with the ties. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

“I left my phone.” He kept his back to me, one hand braced against the doorframe, rubbing the other over his face. “The nurse said you were most likely sleeping. When I didn’t find you in the bed…”

“Does it look like I’m sleeping?”

“No.”

For a man who didn’t want this body, he sure had looked. But then again, I really wasn’t surprised Cassie had been smoking hot and sexy. I finished tying the gown, then crossed my arms over my chest. “You can turn around now.”

He did, slowly, his expression neutral. But something flickered in his eyes, something that made my stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” he said.

“Yeah, well, I needed to see.” I gestured to the mirror. “Needed to know if I was losing my mind or if this was real.”

Blake’s gaze swept over my face, searching. “And?”

I shrugged. “Still deciding.”

He stepped into the small bathroom, making the space feel even smaller. There was just something about him that filled a room.

He smelled like expensive cologne and something darker, richer. It had to be his own scent. Nothing like Richard’s overpowering aftershave that always made my nose itch. Richard bathed in the stuff. Maybe I should have drowned him in it.

“The doctors want to start running the tests,” Blake said. “A lot of them. Brain scans, neurological assessments, psychiatric evaluations. Are you up for it?”

“Psychiatric?” I barked out a laugh. “Oh, let me guess. Because I’m claiming to be someone who drowned?”

“Because you woke up from a six-month coma spouting details about being murdered in a bathtub.” His voice stayed level, but his jaw tightened. “Can you honestly blame them?”

I met his gaze in the mirror. “Can you blame me for telling the truth?”

“The truth.” He said it like he was testing the word. “Your truth is that you were murdered by your husband… namely me?”

“Yes. No. Not you.” I rolled my eyes. “But that is what happened.”

He stared at me for a moment before his features reset. “Can you hear yourself? You sound crazy. If your accident wasn’t well documented, I think the hospital would’ve called the police by now. What game are you playing, Cassie? Is this some sort of payback because I wanted a divorce?”

“I drowned.” I kept my voice flat, let the words land. “I remember putting lavender oil in the water. Gemma’s bracelet clinking against the bath while she held my arms down. His voice, so calm, as he pushed my shoulders into the water.”

The muscle in his jaw jumped.

“Cassie, listen to me.” His tone hardened. “You were in a crash. Driving too fast on a wet road, you went through a guardrail. You wrapped your car around a tree. You had a broken ankle and some bruising; the worst damage was to your head. You had a lot of swelling on the brain.”

A chill slid under my skin. This body’s skin.

“I wasn’t driving,” slipped out before I caught it.

His gaze sharpened. “No?”

“I mean…” I licked my lips; his eyes flicked down and watched the movement, before moving away just as quickly. “I don’t remember the car. I remember water. Not—” I pulled in a slow breath. “You really think I’d confuse a bath with a wet road?”

I could see in that moment I couldn’t tell him, or anyone, who I really was. I was still too confused myself.

“Brains do weird shit, Cassandra.” His tone cooled. “Six months with no input? They start filling gaps with whatever they can reach. Old fears. Half-remembered stories.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Nurses talking about another patient.”

“You think I heard about another patient and… what? Stole her murder?” My laugh scraped my throat. “You think I want all this?” I spread my arms wide.

But I did. I wanted another chance. It was my last vow as Fawn… to come back for revenge. To make Richard and Gemma pay.

He watched me too closely. “I think you sound like someone the psych team will be very interested in.”

The words hit like ice water down my spine.

Psych team.

Frigging great. He wanted to lock me up.

White rooms. Padded edges. Soft voices with sharp drugs in tiny cups, dulling my mind. I’d never set foot in one, but I’d seen enough daytime TV to fill in the blanks. That was not the place for me.

“I’m not crazy,” I said, quieter than I liked.

“No,” he agreed, and that surprised me enough to look straight at him instead of the mirror. “You’re not. That’s the problem. What are you after with this charade, Cassie?”

My fingers tightened around the edge of the sink. “Explain to me why you think this is a charade.”

“Because you’re coherent. Lucid. You know who I am.” His eyes held mine, unblinking and cold. “A rant from someone who can’t string a sentence together is one thing. When it comes out of your mouth like this? It’s a game. What are you up to, Cassie? What do you think you can gain from the act?”

The look he fixed on me made the bathroom suddenly feel airless.

I turned back to the mirror. My new reflection stared at me—too pretty, too tall, not mine. But it was the life I’d been given.

I swallowed against the tightness in my chest. “So what, I’m supposed to shut up? Pretend I didn’t get murdered? Because you think I’m playing some sort of game.”

Maybe I needed to be Cassie Huntington for a while.

The thought slid in, quiet and brutal.

Play along. Nod for the doctors. Answer to Cassie. Learn this body, this life, this man who looked at me like I was a problem he couldn’t solve.

Use it. Use her. Use him.

I didn’t feel great about that one.

But I needed to get my revenge

Footsteps were heard in her room, the squeak of rubber shoes on laminate floors. A nurse’s voice floated closer, talking about scans and transfers and adding, “Your private room is ready.”

Blake glanced toward the door, then back at me. “You should get back into bed,” he said. “So they can transfer you. You only just came back. You need rest.”

Came back.

He wasn’t wrong.

I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and gave my reflection one last look. Fawn Jones was dead. The universe had made that very clear.

Cassandra Huntington, though? She was apparently alive—and I was wearing her skin. I heard the Twilight Zone theme play in my head.

And if I had to wear her face to get revenge on Richard and Gemma, so be it.

I slipped past Blake, brushing his arm as I went. The shock sent a jolt up my arm as I headed back to bed.

“Maybe you’re right,” I said, climbing under the sheet, letting the good-patient mask slide into place. “Maybe the smart move is to stop talking.”

“That would be a first,” he muttered, but his gaze lingered on my face like he was trying to memorise this version of me.

The orderly came in moments later to move me into a private room.

Let them call me Cassandra.

I might be Cassie on paper.

But underneath?

I was the girl they drowned in that bath.

And I was done being the weak one.

I would bring them down piece by piece.

Fawn’s POV

By mid-morning, I’d learned three things.

One: hospital gowns were designed by people who hated joy. I mean, who likes their ass on show? Unless you were a stripper, that is. I had never seen a stripper, but they did shake their bare asses in men’s faces from what I understand. It’s how they earned tips. I’m sure there was a lot more to it. Maybe in this life I should live a little and go see a show. 

Two: Fawn’s death day had been yesterday, so my soul had been in limbo until it had jump-started Cassie’s brain. I wondered if I had picked Cassie, or if the universe had given me the best vessel to achieve my revenge.

And three: the thing I hated the most, apparently, I was the new shiny toy in the hospital.

They came in waves.

Neurologist. Another neurologist. Some specialist from another hospital who “just happened to be here today” and wanted to “observe my case.” A junior doctor with a face full of acne and hero worship in his eyes. Two nurses who pretended to check my chart but were obviously just there to stare.

If one more person said the words remarkable recovery, I was going to shove a monitor up their arse.

“Reflexes look good,” one of the neurologists murmured, tapping my knee again so my leg bounced. “Muscle tone is… frankly astonishing, given the length of the coma.”

“You say that like I’m supposed to apologise,” I muttered.

He smiled absently, too busy being fascinated. “No atrophy. No contractures. Cognition intact. Language intact. This is, well… this is extraordinary.”

I felt like I wasn’t even there. I was just a subject to study.

Great. I was extraordinary… at least the word was different and not remarkable. Extraordinary. I couldn’t manage that when I was alive the first time as Fawn, but dying had really boosted my CV. No, Fawn had been ordinary, missing the extra completely.

When the fourth different person in an hour came in to “just run through some quick checks,” I’d had enough.

“Okay, that’s it,” I snapped, yanking my hand away from the blood pressure cuff. “You’re no frigging baker and I’m no frigging dough. Stop poking me like you’re waiting for me to rise. Oops, I already did that… rise from the dead, that is.”

The junior doctor made a choking sound. The nurse at the foot of the bed looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her. The consultant blinked at me, genuinely confused.

“I’m only trying to help,” he said, that offended tone bleeding through. “We’ve never seen a recovery quite like this—”

“Yeah, and I’m sure that looks great on your research paper,” I cut in. “But I’m not a sideshow. I’m tired. My head hurts. My throat feels like I’ve swallowed sand.” Having a tube down your throat for six months would do that. “You want to stare at a miracle, go find a statue that cries blood. I just want five minutes without someone shining a light in my eyes. I already have a headache.”

Silence. Then, unexpectedly, a low sound of amusement from the corner.

Blake.

I turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow.

I’d almost forgotten he was there. Which was ridiculous, because he took up space without even trying. He was leaning back in one of the chairs, long legs stretched out, jacket buttoned again, tie straight now. There was something calming about having him there. I was sure if I’d been alone, I would have been freaking out.

He’d been here since I’d woken up… in Cassie’s stolen body.

I didn’t know why it surprised me that Blake stayed, but it did. A man like Richard didn’t like sickness. Blake? Still here. Still hovering like this was business he hadn’t finished.

From what I could piece together since waking up, Blake had just signed off to have Cassie’s life support turned off. His wife had been brain-dead. He’d been putting it off, not wanting to be the one to pull the plug, so to speak. All of this I’d picked up from hushed conversations the staff had around me, thinking I was brain-damaged or something and didn’t understand.

Was he going to whip out the divorce papers at any minute and make me sign them? No, that wasn't his style, I was pretty sure. Divorcing your wife the day she wakes up from the dead would be bad PR.

“She has a point,” Blake said, voice mild but cool. “You’ve drawn blood twice, run through the same tests twice, made her walk the corridor, tested her reflexes, memory, balance. How much more do you need before you write ‘we don’t know why she’s fine, but she is’ and let her rest?”

The consultant bristled. “Mr. Huntington, with respect—”

“I’m paying for all this,” Blake said, not raising his voice but somehow making the room feel smaller. “I’m not paying for you to run her into the ground on day one. Prioritize what matters. The rest can wait. She isn’t some act in a circus.”

It struck me then—he hadn’t just been hanging around like some guilty ex. He’d been guarding her. Was he feeling guilty for signing my death warrant? Cassie’s. This was getting confusing even in my own head.

It was interesting, though, that Blake had stayed with a woman he wanted to divorce.

The neurologist muttered something under his breath. “Alright, we’ll space the rest across the afternoon,” then left with his little herd.

Good.

The room fell quiet for the first time since the tests started.

I let out a slow breath. My head throbbed, but at least no one was waving a light pen in my face anymore.

“You’re enjoying this,” I said, turning my head to look at him.

Blake arched a brow. “Enjoying what?”

“Being king of the castle.” I waved a hand weakly. “Telling everyone what to do. Saving the poor, exhausted miracle patient from the big bad doctors.”

“There is nothing poor about you, Cassie. If I were enjoying it,” he said, “I’d have brought popcorn and just watched the show.”

“Don’t joke. I’d kill for popcorn.” I wasn’t joking. I was hungry.

That earned me the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Really, I would kill for any food… Do you think the medical staff want to put me back into a coma by starving me?”

God, he was hot. It was annoying. No one had the right to have cheekbones that sharp and eyes that cold and a mouth that somehow still looked like sin even when he was frowning.

Richard had been attractive in a polished, false way. Expensive suit, gym membership, nice smile he used like a weapon.

Blake looked like he’d been carved for war. Broad shoulders. Thick wrists. Hands that looked like they could break things and fix them in the same hour. The kind of hot that made you think of bad decisions, locked doors, and sweaty, messed-up beds with tangled limbs.

My body—Cassie’s body—reacted to him in a way that felt unfair. A low thrum in my stomach. Skin too aware of the air between us. When his gaze dropped to my mouth, it felt like being touched.

He and Cassie would have made a smoking-hot-looking couple together.

I dragged my attention back to the ceiling.

Pretend. For a while. Remember? That did not mean getting involved with him. No matter how much this body wanted to.

“You could leave, you know,” I said after a minute. “You did your part. Watched me rise from the dead. Busy men like you have meetings to attend, millions to make, souls to crush. That sort of thing.”

Instead of being offended, he looked faintly amused. “Is that what you think I do all day?”

“How would I know? My memories are all over the place, remember.”

He studied me for a long beat, like he was cataloguing every answer, every flicker of expression.

“You really don’t remember the accident,” he said finally.

“I remember waking up in shock and you looking at me like I’d climbed out of my own grave,” I said, my voice rough but steady. “The ‘accident’ part seems to be hiding behind a big fat nope.”

His eyes stayed on me in that unnerving way, like he was trying to peel back layers. “Earlier, you mentioned drowning,” he said. “A bath. That is not nothing.”

Of course, he wasn’t going to let that go. Why would he? I’d basically sat up from the dead and opened with… 'Hi, I’m crazy, nice to meet you.'

I forced a small shrug, pretending it cost me nothing. “I also dreamed I was back in high school naked once. Doesn’t mean my teachers saw my arse. Brains make up weird horror shows when they’ve got nothing better to do. Apparently, my subconscious likes baths.”

His jaw tightened. He heard the deflection; I could tell he did. That didn’t mean I was going to stop.

“I just don’t want to be drowned again,” I added lightly. “Even in conversation. So let’s maybe not dwell on that part.”

He watched me for a long moment, and I had that odd sensation he’d see straight through me if I let him look long enough. Just one more reason not to.

A soft knock came at the door, saving me from having to keep a straight face any longer. A woman in navy scrubs stepped in, dark hair twisted into a bun that had been done three hours and forty patients ago.

“Mrs. Huntington?” she said, with that bright, gentle voice people use on children and people they think might start crying. “I’m Dr. Butcher, from the psychiatric liaison team. Is it okay if we talk for a few minutes?”