The air in the room seemed to vanish, sucked out by the sheer gravitational pull of Francesco's rage. He didn't shout. He didn't run. He walked into the room with a terrifying, predatory slowness.

He walked past Preston as if he didn't exist. He went straight to Annelise.

"Uncle Fran, she's faking it!" Preston stammered, lowering his hand. "She attacked Felicia! She's... she's crazy! You didn't see what she did!"

Francesco ignored him. He crouched down beside Annelise. He took off his suit jacket, draping the heavy, warm fabric over her shoulders.

"Annelise?" he asked softly.

She looked up. Her eyes were wet with tears. She was shaking so hard her teeth chattered.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed, clutching the lapels of his jacket. "I'm so clumsy. I made him mad."

Francesco saw the blood. A shard of the vase had sliced her calf. A thin line of crimson ran down her leg, soaking into her sock.

He stood up. He turned to Preston.

Preston took a step back, hitting the wall. "Uncle Fran, listen to me. She twisted Felicia's wrist! She threatened to break her arm!"

"I see a woman on the floor bleeding," Francesco said. "And I see a man with his hand raised."

"She's lying!" Felicia screeched from the corner. "Look at my dress!"

"Silas," Francesco said without looking back.

Silas appeared in the doorway. "Sir."

"Remove Ms. Carson. If she speaks again, ban her from all Lancaster properties. Permanently."

Silas nodded and grabbed Felicia by the elbow, dragging the protesting woman out of the room.

Francesco stepped closer to Preston. He towered over him.

"You come into my hospital," Francesco said, his voice a low rumble. "You threaten my ward."

"She's not a ward! She's a psycho!" Preston yelled, desperate now. "She knows things about the accounts! She's not who she says she is!"

Francesco reached out. His hand clamped around Preston's throat. He didn't squeeze to choke; he squeezed to control. He lifted Preston onto his toes, pinning him against the wall.

"You are a disappointment, Preston. You always have been. But now, you are a nuisance."

Francesco leaned in close. "If I ever see you within ten feet of her again, I will not call the police. I will break your legs myself. Do you understand?"

Preston gurgled, his face turning purple. He nodded frantically.

Francesco released him. Preston slumped to the floor, gasping for air.

"Get out."

Preston scrambled to his feet and ran. The door slammed shut behind him.

Silence returned to the room, heavy and thick.

Francesco took a deep breath, composing himself. He turned back to Annelise. She was still on the floor, watching him. Her eyes were wide, but the fear... the fear seemed different now.

He walked over and knelt again. He reached out, his fingers hovering near her face. He gently took the glasses off her nose, setting them on the table.

"Did he hit you?" Francesco asked.

"No," Annelise whispered. "You stopped him."

She reached up, her hand trembling, and touched his cheek. Her fingers brushed against the rough stubble of his jaw.

"Thank you," she said.

Francesco felt a strange tightness in his chest. He hated weakness. He despised tears. But seeing her like this, so small in his oversized jacket, ignited a protective instinct he didn't know he possessed.

"It's over," he said roughly. "I'll handle them."

He scooped her up into his arms, mindful of the glass. He carried her to the bed and set her down.

"Rest," he commanded.

Annelise lay back against the pillows. She watched him walk to the window, his shoulders tense. She allowed herself a small, imperceptible smile.

The King was moving his pieces exactly where she wanted them.

An hour later, the room was quiet. Francesco sat at the small table, signing documents. He had just frozen Preston's trust fund. It was petty, but satisfying.

He shifted in his chair, a grimace crossing his face. The adrenaline from the confrontation had faded, leaving the burn on his back throbbing with renewed intensity.

"Your back hurts," Annelise said.

He looked up. She was watching him.

"It's fine," he said.

"It's not fine. You're guarding your left side. The dressing needs to be changed."

"I'll call a nurse."

"No." Annelise sat up. "You don't trust the staff here. I saw how you looked at them. Let me do it."

Francesco hesitated. She was right. He didn't like strangers touching him, especially when he was injured. It was a vulnerability.

"I know first aid," she added quickly. "I helped... I helped at the animal shelter. With the dogs."

Francesco sighed. He stood up and unbuttoned his shirt, letting it fall to his waist. He sat on the edge of her bed, presenting his back to her.

Annelise opened the first aid kit. She peeled back the bandages. The skin was angry, red and blistered. It was a nasty burn.

"This is going to sting," she murmured.

She applied the cooling gel. Her fingers were gentle, incredibly precise. She didn't hesitate. She didn't shake.

The door opened.

A nurse walked in. Her name tag said 'Ashley'. She had blonde hair, too much eyeliner, and a uniform that was a size too small.

"Mr. Lancaster," Ashley purred. "I'm here to check your vitals."

Her eyes immediately went to Francesco's bare torso. She licked her lips. In her hand, she held a tray with a thermometer and a cotton swab.

Annelise watched her. She saw the way Ashley's eyes darted to the bloody bandage on the table. She saw the way she positioned the swab, not for a throat culture, but as if she intended to swipe a sample of blood.

Corporate espionage. Someone wanted Francesco's DNA. Maybe to check for genetic markers, maybe to prove he was unfit to lead, maybe to clone him. It didn't matter.

Ashley reached out, leaning over Francesco, her chest practically brushing his shoulder. "Let me just clean that up for you..." She reached for the bloody bandage with the swab.

Clatter.

Annelise's hand swept across the bedside table. The metal tray of instruments crashed to the floor.

"Oops," Annelise said. "My hand slipped."

Ashley jumped, glaring at her. "Watch it!"

The swab had fallen on the floor. Ashley bent down to retrieve it.

Annelise swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her foot came down hard, directly on the tip of the cotton swab, grinding it into the linoleum.

"Oh no," Annelise said, her voice dripping with false innocence. "I'm so clumsy today."

Ashley stood up, her face red. "You did that on purpose!"

"Silas!" Annelise called out.

The bodyguard opened the door.

"This nurse is making me uncomfortable," Annelise said, pointing a trembling finger. "She's... she's staring at Francesco. I don't like it."

Francesco turned around. He looked at the crushed swab on the floor. He looked at Ashley's panicked expression. Then he looked at Annelise, who was doing a very convincing impression of a jealous girlfriend.

"Get her out," Francesco said to Silas. "And have security vet her personnel file again."

Ashley was escorted out, protesting loudly.

Francesco turned back to Annelise. A small smirk played on his lips.

"Jealous?" he asked.

Annelise looked down, twisting her fingers. "She was looking at you like you were a steak. It was gross."

Francesco chuckled. It was a rusty sound, like he hadn't used it in years.

"Continue," he said, turning his back to her again.

Annelise resumed applying the ointment. Her touch was firm. As her fingers traced the muscles of his spine, the air in the room grew heavy. It wasn't just medical anymore. It was intimate.

Francesco closed his eyes. For a second, he forgot she was a liability. He forgot the merger. He just felt her hands on him, and it felt... right.

Annelise worked in silence. She laid a fresh gauze pad over the burn. She reached for the medical tape.

Her movements were automatic. Muscle memory took over. She tore the tape with her teeth-a bad habit from the field-and secured the bandage. Then, she began to tie off the ends of the gauze roll to keep it in place.

She looped the fabric, pulled it tight, looped again, and tucked. It was a modified square knot, specifically used by field medics to ensure a dressing wouldn't slip during combat movement.

Francesco felt the knot tighten.

Flashback.

Heat. Dust. The smell of cordite. He was lying in the rubble of a building in Aleppo. His leg was bleeding out. His vision was graying at the edges.

A figure hovered over him. A woman. Her face was covered by a tactical scarf, only her eyes visible. Blue eyes. Icy blue.

She was working on his leg. Her hands were cool. Her movements were precise, efficient. No wasted motion.

She tied the tourniquet. The same pull. The same loop. The same tuck.

Present Day.

Francesco's eyes snapped open. He spun around, grabbing Annelise's wrist. His grip was iron.

"Who taught you that?" he demanded. His voice was harsh, urgent.

Annelise froze. Her heart skipped a beat. She had slipped. The knot.

Her free hand twitched, instinctively moving toward the hidden pocket in her sleeve where she kept a small blade. She stopped herself.

She forced her muscles to relax. She let her jaw go slack. She looked at him with wide, confused eyes.

"What?" she asked. "You're hurting me."

"The knot," Francesco said, not letting go. "That's not a standard first aid knot. Who taught you?"

Annelise blinked. "YouTube."

Francesco stared at her. "YouTube?"

"Yes," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "My... my grandmother. She had ulcers on her legs. I had to dress them every day. I watched videos on how to make the bandages stay on because she moved around a lot in her sleep. Is it wrong?"

She looked at him with such earnest confusion that Francesco felt his certainty waver.

He looked at her hands. They were soft, manicured (mostly). Not the hands of a soldier. And her face... she was just a girl from the suburbs who got caught in a bad engagement.

He slowly released her wrist.

"No," he said, rubbing his temple. "It's not wrong. It's... very professional."

"Did I hurt you?" Annelise asked softly. She reached out and pressed her finger gently against a spot near the burn, knowing exactly where the nerve cluster was.

Francesco hissed in a breath.

"Sorry!" She pulled back. "See? I'm clumsy."

The pain grounded him. It chased away the memory of the blue eyes in the desert.

"It's fine," he said. He buttoned his shirt. He stood up and walked to his briefcase. He pulled out a sleek, black smartphone.

"Your old phone is compromised," he said. "Preston probably has a tracker on it. Use this."

He handed it to her.

Annelise took it. It was a heavy, military-grade encrypted device. A satellite phone disguised as a smartphone.

"Thank you," she said.

She knew exactly what this was. It was a gift, yes. But it was also a leash. Every keystroke, every call, every GPS coordinate would be logged to Francesco's server.

She turned it on. She typed in her passcode-1107. Internally, she noted the choice: the birthday of the real Annelise Phelps, the girl whose identity she'd inhabited. A simple, verifiable piece of data for a man like Francesco to check. A perfect piece of camouflage.

Francesco watched her. She didn't try to hide the screen. She didn't look suspicious.

"The car is ready," Silas announced from the door.

Francesco held out his hand to her. "Let's go. We're going home."

Annelise looked at his hand. It was large, calloused, dangerous.

She placed her hand in his.

"Okay," she said.