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?”

Fawn’s POV

Of course it was psych time. We’d done the poking, the tapping, the lights-in-the-eyes; now they needed to make sure I wasn’t going to flip a table or start speaking in tongues. Fair, I guess. But who could blame me for being a little freaked out? I was a body snatcher.

“As long as you’re not here to take more blood,” I said. “I’m pretty sure I’ve donated enough for three vampires and a large family of blood-sucking leeches. With a name like Dr Butcher, I’m not sure I would want you anywhere near me. You know, you really should consider changing that. It gives a bad first impression.”

“I hear that a lot, but I think my husband would be upset if I didn’t keep his name.” Her mouth twitched. “But I promise no blood. Just some questions.”

She then glanced toward Blake. “Would you prefer to speak alone, or is it all right if Mr Huntington stays?”

I thought about that for a second. Alone meant they’d press harder. With Blake here, I’d have an audience, but at least there’d be a witness if they decided to cart me off in a straightjacket. Not that I’d put it past them.

“He can stay,” I said finally. “Nothing I was planning to say in here is that exciting.”

Blake shifted in the chair, but didn’t argue, which was telling in itself. I had a feeling he didn’t want to be here, but he couldn’t make himself leave. I knew the feeling, only I didn’t think they would let me leave.

Dr Butcher dragged a chair closer, sat so we were roughly eye level. She had kind eyes. That didn’t mean I was about to pour my soul out to her, because she could still lock me up.

“The team mentioned you’ve been through quite a lot today,” she began. Understatement of the century. “I just want to get a sense of how you’re feeling and what you remember. There was some mention of… drowning?” She looked at Blake for a second. “Your husband drowning you.”

Oh, so that’s why she asked if I wanted him to leave. Nice of her.

Blake shrugged.

I let my head fall back for a second, eyes closing briefly, then opened them again and went for the lie that would cause the least damage.

“I had a dream,” I said. “It felt real at the time. You know how it is… no one ever dreams about sitting quietly and filing out their taxes. It’s always absurd and dramatic. I woke up choking, thought for a second that…” I trailed off, let my shoulders lift in a shrug. “They tell me I was in a car accident, so I’m assuming my brain just slapped the wrong movie over the top.”

“How vivid was it?” she asked gently. “On a scale of, say, a flicker to feeling like it actually happened?”

“Somewhere around Oscar-season-hopeful,” I said. “But I’m not stupid. I know dreams aren’t reality just because they feel like it. The facts say car crash. I’m not about to sit here and argue with the truth. I’m guessing it’s okay that my brain is a little mixed up. Give me a day or two and I’ll be as right as rain.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Blake’s head tilt slightly, that small reaction like he’d noticed I’d tempered what I’d said earlier. Good. Let him notice. Let him see I wasn’t completely unhinged. He might still believe I was playing games. But after being drowned by my husband, I wasn’t my normal self, so no one would blame me.

“Do you feel unsafe?” Dr Butcher went on. “Like someone might be trying to harm you now?”

Yes. My husband. My ex-husband. My murderer.

Because he was not this body’s husband. Richard had been married to my old body… weak Fawn. So I saw myself as divorced.

I swallowed that down. No one here knew Fawn Jones existed, not really. To the world, she was just a name in a file, a tragic little accident, from what I understood of how Richard and Gemma were going to frame it. Was Fawn’s body in the hospital morgue right now? Forgotten. The only people missing me would be my parents. Mom and Dad. Their only daughter dead. The only two people in the world mourning the loss of Fawn. While Richard and Gemma rubbed their hands together in glee.

What about Cassie—would anyone be mourning the loss of her? I would find out over the coming months what sort of person Cassie was. If anyone loved her.

But for now, Fawn needed to go away while I became Cassie.

If I started shouting about being Fawn Jones, the best-case scenario was medication. Worst case, they’d lock me somewhere with soft walls and no door handles, talking in group circles about my feelings, and drugged up to the eyeballs every day.

“No,” I said, and even managed to sound like I meant it. “I feel… overwhelmed. My body doesn’t feel like mine. My life doesn’t feel like mine. But no, I don’t feel like someone’s about to jump out from behind the curtain and finish me off. I just feel like I’ve woken up with my brain scrambled, and considering what I’ve been through, I think that’s understandable.”

Her gaze softened. She nodded like that was reasonable. “Yes, that’s a very understandable reaction to waking from a coma, especially with some memory gaps. What about your mood? Any thoughts of harming yourself?”

God, they really did have to tick all the boxes.

“I’ve just come back from the dead,” I said. “I’m not in a rush to do the return journey. Sorry if that disappoints.”

She laughed once, quietly. “Humour is usually a good sign. I won’t keep you long.” She tapped something into her tablet. “From what I’m seeing so far, you’re oriented, engaging appropriately, and not actively distressed. We’ll check in with you again in a few days, but there’s no indication right now for anything more formal.”

Translation: We’re going to watch you like a hawk, but we’re not dragging you away today. Saved from the straitjacket for one more day.

“Lucky me,” I murmured.

Blake was watching me with narrowed eyes.

She thanked me for my time, thanked Blake for his, then slipped out, the door closing softly behind her. The room felt bigger again and strangely emptier without her professional calm soaking up some of the weirdness.

“You walked that back very quickly,” Blake said after a beat, his voice low. “Earlier you were adamant about getting murdered.”

“Yeah, well, earlier I’d just come back from being a corpse,” I said. “Forgive me for not having my script polished.” I picked at a loose thread on the blanket. “No one believes the crazy coma woman anyway. Might as well stick to the story that gets me fewer pills.”

His gaze sharpened. “Is that what you think it was? A story?”